


Honey and Lime

by fckdanielhowell



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bookstores, Coffee Shops, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Enemies, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Soulmates, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-19 01:33:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 38,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29991861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fckdanielhowell/pseuds/fckdanielhowell
Summary: George owns a bookshop off a corner in London. The intimacy of old pages and raw shelves gives a sense of familiarity and homeliness he can't imagine anywhere else. On one particularly slow day, a strange man stumbles into the store and into, arguably, the single most embarrassing event he's ever have to endure. And yet, somehow, he keeps coming back.or, bookshop owner george meets english professor dream
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 106





	1. Chapter 1

The ever so slight _tik-tok_ emerging from the wall above is enough to remind George it was well into supposed rush time. The man lifts his head over from his hand, eyes wondering around the bookstore, catching more poltergeists than people. With a sigh, George returns his droopy head to the comfort of his palm, recluses back into his chair, and sighs. It's moments like these, when the store is merely a moment in time as opposed to the project he’s spent years building, where his mum's words ring truer and truer. He should've stuck to a _proper_ job. A proper _life_ rather than the falsity and fantasy disguised as ink on A4.

He likes to think this shop is himself in a way. The dark oak shelves a strong resemblance to his unruly brunet hair, the jaded pages a strong reminder of just how jaded he, himself, is. George looks around, not for the first time today. He supposes he can’t be too upset over the lack of customers. The time was hardly three in the afternoon - on a Tuesday above all else. In any other occasion or date, however, the store would be bustling. It _is_ rush hour after all. Or, well, whatever form of rush hour a small bookshop tucked away could compare to. 

The subtle pounding of rain against glass is just as dismal as the store. Just as dark, and grey and - dark. George peels himself from his thoughts, his mind alight, as he strolls swiftly towards the lamp residing on his desk, and switches it on. His gaze steels itself a look in awe at how something so small as a blaze could illuminate such a brooding atmosphere in its best manner. 

The man chuckles lightly to himself, tearing his body away before colours could start to cover his visions and make him dizzy. Such small things create such elegant musings, he supposes. 

Almost alarmingly, the quaint bell dangling above the shops door rings out in what George could almost compare to agony as the glorified piece of wood gets shoved to the side, and a tall, panicked man stumbles into the store. George slaps his hand to his heart as a, mildly embarrassingly, loud gasp departs from his lips. He gazes at the stranger in surprise, laughing mildly at how easily frightened he seems to be these days. "You scared me, mate." He mutters, a smile playing at his face.

The tall man freezes in his tracks, a stark juxtapose from the seconds prior where he seemed a circus animal. "Oh, shit! Erm, so sorry." George merely waves him off, distracted by studying the man at hand. From where he's sat, George can make out much too little. What he assumed to be an attempted quiff is reduced down to a levitating fringe from the rain. The dirty blond hair, George notes, a far contrast to his almost-white skin. George almost thinks of the stars as plagiarism for stealing such beauty that was the man in front of him. Almost. 

Rather, George thinks of the way the mans legs look as he strolls closer and closer to his desk. "Erm, hi, sorry but I'm here to collect an order-in?" The man states (more so questions, George muses to himself). The man's holding his own hands, lifting his fingers and bending them lightly. A nervous habit, George supposes. 

With a brief nod, George turns to his computer, shifting through a list or so until he comes across his order-ins. Scanning shortly, he comes across one name. _Harold, Oliver._ And one title. _Fifty Shades Of Grey._ George's head lifts up, looking at the mysterious man who somehow manages to look as though he's been sculpted by Phidias and carved by poetry, then glances back at the title. Then back up at the man who could wake stars and suns with a simple gaze, and back at the words, written in Helvetica and black. _Fifty Shades Of Grey._

George likes to perceive himself as professional, a man who could keep a straight face at a funeral and a smile on a wedding. He assumed he could separate art from the artist, the reader from the readings. And yet as soon as his customary stoic-ness cracked ever so slightly, he can't help the shit-eating laugh that has him holding his stomach, and wiping the forming tears from his eyes. That is until a small cough catches his attention and, as an anchor setting a boat to shore, George returns back to the reality of Oliver Harold and his. . . odd. . . reading choices. 

"Oh, uh, so sorry, Mr Harold." George tries and fails miserably to conceal his grin. He notes the strike of confusion flicker across the strangers, now referable to as Oliver, face before morphing into that of understanding and slight embarrassment. George ignores it, he probably just realised what he had bought. "Just give me two seconds." He finishes, as he disappears back into the main bookshop.

His legs take him to the section labelled 'ADULT FICTION'. As he scans for the book, George turns and sees Oliver frantically typing on his phone. He shrugs it off, turns back and breathes out triumphantly as he finds the novel in question. Returning to the desk, George types something into the computer, notes the book's pre-paid, and prints out the virtual receipt. "There you go, Sir." He says, his best attempt at a straight face proving to be just as good as his best attempt at running, as he hands over the book and slip of paper. "Have fun." He laughs, softly this time. 

Oliver looks confused for the brief seconds it takes for the book to reach his hands. Once his mind finally grasps what the book is, his face flashes from confusion to embarrassment to sheepishness to what can only be described as fond anger. He mutters a quiet "Good Lord, I'm going to murder him." Or at least that's what George believes he says. He couldn't be too sure. Oliver was awfully quiet. "Right, erm, thanks - will do - I mean, I - thank you, have a good day." Oliver rambles, voice in a loud enough register now for George to completely understand him.

His smile stays printed, though drops a little bit. He didn't mean to make the poor man feel anything less than comfortable, but how could he help laughing! The only people he's met bold enough to buy books of that nature are in the more middle aged women demographic. He admires the bravery of the man walking away almost - though questions the usability of his _Amazon_ account. 

Oliver has one foot out the door, his head down and book hidden in his coat, wincing ever so slightly as George begins speaking. "Hey, um, be careful out there! It's utterly pissing. Wouldn't want to ruin you're book, Mr Harold." Oliver laughs for the first time since he entered the shop, and George's lungs full with a warmth he's read in novels and seen in movies and _good fuck_ nobody warned him it would be this painfully brilliant.

Oliver hesitates at the door, then. His head draws to George and he finally finishes his mental debate. "Oh, erm, George - is it?" His own name being called brings the brunet slight surprise, but when the triangular plastic that sits on his chest digs into his shirt he's reminded of his nametag. "Oli's my flatmate. You can call me Clay." And then, the man who's allegedly called 'Clay' skips out the shop, head low, posture slouching and face red. And the clouds returned to grey, and the warmth in George's chest blows out like a match without a fuse, and, suddenly, the lamp isn't enough anymore.

George returns his head to his hand, he recoils back into his chair, and his eyes stick to the door like glue. He feels infantile this way, but he never did much like being an adult. And he waits. For what he's sure will never come, and that he's correct. But his eyes find a wallet left on the desk. And he's certain Italy can hear his heartrate increase, and France can see his grin. And maybe the stranger will see him too.


	2. Chapter 2

Clay feels as though lead pours through his blood stream and bricks replace his organs. Heaviness is what he thinks it's called. Utter heaviness. He practically runs out of the store in embarrassment and, in mere minutes, he feels like a teenager again. Like he's running away from the boy he confessed he fancied to. Only this time it's both mortification and elation that course through his bones. Mortifying in the sense that a man sculpted by the actual Gods just caught him purchasing _Fifty Shades of Gray_ \- albeit it isn't exactly his purchase per se. Though elation was caused due to the fact he just purchased something from a man sculpted by the actual Gods. And good fuck, he is a teenager again. And his heart race increases. And his face turns as rosy and golden as the flowers on vines that climb the passing neighbourhood. And he - has forgotten his wallet.

His hands grasp frantically at his pockets, reaching for something that can possibly be on Neptune for all he knows. How can he lose such an item? His wallet? Clay knows this isn't the first time, and he knows his bank is sick of him calling in time and time again explaining sheepishly that he's seemed to 'misplace' his bank card and can't seem to find it. He also knows it can only be in two possible places, the university, or the bookshop. 

The man sulks then. His office is locked, he made sure to lock it on the way out and drop his keys off on his way home. He also has the foggiest memory of pulling his wallet out of his coat before the shop worker, George he recalls, handed him the book without a single question about payment. Well, shit. With a sigh, Clay decides to walk home. As much as he needs his wallet, he still has the £20 or so he shoved into his coat during lunch. He didn't want to be known as both the _Fifty Shades of Grey_ man and the man who can't not lose his wallet. And so he drops it, his anxiety from his lack of wallet, his pace and his way back to his flat. After that experience, the least he deserves is a coffee. And possibly the chance to scold Oli.

So he strolls, takes his time walking on cobblestone, until he reaches Soho. Upon entering the familiar coffee shop, the feelings of mortification from throughout the day melt into the vanilla late he takes a sip of. Part of him wishes it was a Wednesday since that's when Edna took up her shifts. Part of him is glad it's Tuesday, since he can be left to his brooding. All those parts crash into one as he takes another sip, savouring what he claims to be the best coffee in London. He sits like this for about an hour, before deciding it's time to leave. 

He grabs his coat and his (though he'd be damned before admitting it to Oli) fourth cup of coffee, and strolls out the door. As easy as that. If it weren't for the bloody giant with stars in his eyes and mirth in his smile and, now, coffee on his shirt. Clay wonders how the floorboards look like home, maybe he could melt back to them and live the rest of his respectable adult life as rectangular laminate instead of in this two hour long silence he's caught himself in. That could be quite nice.

Reality catches up to him and, as much as the floorboards look like a comforting blanket, Clay splutters out "G-George?" For an English professor he never can seem to get the correct words.

"Clay?" George questions, finally looking down at the man then to his shirt where his eyes are greeted with a brown stain and his nose is cemented with three shots of pure caffeine.

"Oh my Lord, I'm so sorry! Here let me just-" Clay starts, running to the counter to get some tissues, before throwing them rather ungracefully at George's chest. He doesn't realise it until he actually looks up at George's amused face, but all the poor bloke's truly doing is feeling up the bookshop owner and rubbing coffee into his grey shirt. Fuck. 

But then George starts laughing, and Clay's not quite sure if it's the anxiety or the way his eyes crinkle and his dimple shows, but his heart feels as though it could burst out of his chest at any given moment. And then Clay starts laughing. 

"Ah, don't worry 'bout it," George begins, waving his hand in a passing manner. "Just means you have forty eight shades to go." His laugh bursts then, as George doubles down and holds his sides whilst Clay is in no different of a condition, albeit his rosy cheeks caused more from embarrassment than lack of oxygen. 

Once they've both calmed down, and Clay's stopped thanking every God and every scripture he can think of that they were the only customers in the cafe at that stage, Clay offers a shy smile and a quick "I'm so sorry, really, let me pay for your coffee - please." 

George thinks it over for a minute, clearly debating whether he should accept coffee from a lad who spilt it on him not even five minutes ago. Then miraculously, agrees. "I mean, if you want to, yeah." He smiles. Clay doesn't think he's ever experienced something so colourful before. So they wait in line, and Clay doesn't believe in fate but he does believe he's never seen brown hair compliment pale skin so well, and he's never seen chapped lips laugh with such elegance and he's never met a man that looks like honey and scented like lime. 

George orders, Clay pays and just as he's about to walk away, he feels a tug on his sleeve. Turning around, he sees George, smiling subtly, coffee in hand, and gesturing towards a table. "Sit with me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO!! welcome to chapter two fhsdjk basically ... its cool its cool fhjsdk this whole fanfic is like a child to me honestly idk i just felt like mc stans would appreciate it lmao fhsdjh but yep yep !! hope u enjoyed :D if u wanna comment pls do i get lonely fhsdjkh hope u have a wonderful time period i love u all so much mwah!!


	3. Chapter 3

On the table, sit two cups of coffee - filled to the brim. George's smile reflects onto the surface of the liquid and, somehow, even the smaller details of his happiness - his dimples, the wrinkles that form atop his nose and beside his eyes - all seem to be painted onto the drinks like the Mona Lisa to a canvas. Clay thinks George's prettier than Mona Lisa. Especially when George's laugh echoes through the half full café, ringing in Clay's ears and carving a sculpture of his grin into his mind. He'd like to remember it, he thinks.

"Look, in my defence I didn't think he'd break my arm!" Clay defends, his hands thrown up and his tongue making a home between his teeth. George gawks at him, eyes bright, reflecting the amber glow provided by the draping lights, strewn around the roof of the coffee shop. Clay thinks of Georges eyes like a galaxy, then. He wonders for a moment if the stars he sees now will still be here in five minutes. Maybe they'll pass away, maybe they'll burn brighter. Clay will just have to see.

"Clay! It was a bloody squirrel - in London of all places - why would you think that would be a good idea?!" George barely finishes the sentence, too busy trying not to double over from the not-so-suppressed hysterics he managed to somehow pull himself into.

"I didn't see the 'don't feed the squirrels' sign, how was I supposed to know?" Clay pouts.

"There was a sign too? You really are a bit thick aren't you?" Fondness drips from George's words like rain in summer and good fuck, Clay doesn't know how he lived before hearing such a thing.

"Hey, just because I teach English doesn't mean I can actually read it - I left my glasses at home that day." That catches George's attention. He isn't sure how he missed such obvious signs of Clay teaching English. George's gaze drapes towards the clothes donning his new friend, noting the cordial trousers and black turtleneck, covered by a dark tartan print coat. Needless to say, Clay looks as though he stepped out of a dark academia _Pinterest_ board and into _Dead Poets Society_. How did George not think of this before?

"I never knew you were an English teacher." 

"Professor, actually! I work just down the road, Westminster Kingsway. Guess it never came up." Westminster Kingsway, George thinks. The name rolls over his head like a set of dice for a moment or two, pinpointing its familiarity until it clicks. George passes the college building to get to work. 

"Shit, really? Guess we're like, occupational flatmates then." They both lose it at that. George takes a small moment to appreciate himself for not even touching his coffee in the past half hour or so. God knows he would've spilt it all over Clay - maybe they would've been even then. Instead, however, the drinks stay stagnant, acting a mirror to their emotions and a reminder of their inability to tear their gazes away from each other.

"Guess we are." 

They quieten a bit after that but their conversation never dies out. George asks Clay why he bought _Fifty Shades of Grey_ eventually and Clay very sheepishly explains how his flatmate asked him to pick up a book from the shop, and forgot to mention it wasn't for coursework. George doesn't think he's ever laughed more than when he's with Clay. Their drinks sit on the table, long stilled and long cold, and the watch on Clay's wrist _tik tik_ 's into a silence that somehow seems so natural to them. And George's so close to Clay he can see small the small freckles below his eyes, and he can hear his heartrate increase whenever he so much as looks Clay's way, and he can smell honey and lime. And, God, Clay has never been in the presence of someone so beautiful.

Reality crashes into their small haven and reminds Clay he still has papers to mark and so, albeit incredibly hesitant, he says a drawn out goodbye to George, shakes his hand and hurries out the shop to his flat down the road. As he walks across cobble and through amber the soft gaze of George's eyes tracing his figure skips through his mind. His body feels like it's playing hopscotch and his head feels as though it evaporates the more he thinks of George's smile, and George's laugh and _George_. Even as he reaches the steps to his shared flat, George courses through Clay's veins as the caffeine did an hour or so prior.

He enters the flat, jumping in the air in a bout of happiness before kicking his shoes off, hanging his coat up and walking into the living room. Clay's eyes meet his flatmate lying on the sofa, with an Earl Grey in hand and what he guesses to be _Moby Dick_ in another. "You know, it's not about whales." Clay gestures to the novel in the possession of the other man, sinking into the other side of the couch and meeting eyes with his best friend, Oli.

"Oh, shut your trap, Clay." Oli laughs, reaching over to lightly punch Clay in his arm. Even if he tried to punch him proper, he probably couldn't go any harder, Clay muses to himself. He loves his flatmate, deep and truly, but he's built like the spine of a children's book and has about the same amount of violence as them too. Oliver seems to think for a second, before he decides on what to ask, a lightbulb materialising atop his head and resting for a moment or two before disappearing back into the void that is Clay's imagination. "Talking 'bout your trap, where've you been, lad?" 

Clay grimaces a moment thinking about this afternoon before a full on, shit-eating and paralyzingly bright grin takes over his face. "Well, to start off I went to collect your _novel._ " He rolls his eyes, fiddling around his pockets until he finds it, pages slightly damp from the rainfall. Clay chucks the book at his friend and Oli just about catches it against his chest, cackling so hard, Clay can see a build up of tears.

"Oh, God, you actually did it!"

"You're bloody right I did. And no thanks to you, I literally almost passed away, Oliver - deceased myself - in front of God himself. Literally if Chris Hemsworth's abs were like, a person, that would be the shopkeeper." Clay sighs, falling onto his back and draping his hand on his head to accentuate just how dramatic the whole event was.

Oli slams his book shut, puts it down on the counter and leans forward. A bit of his tea sploshes onto his hand and he grimaces for a brief second or two. "Wait, I made you collect _Fifty Shades_ from Chris Hemsworth's abs?" Oli gasped. "My fuck, I'm so sorry, Clay." 

Clay throws a quick glare at Oli as he launches back into the story. "Yeah, I honestly thought I'd ruined my chances. But I got you're stupid book, left and guess what?" 

"What?"

"I forgot my blimming wallet!" Clay drags his hand across his face, realisation dawning on him that he has yet to collect said item. He looks over towards Oli as his eyebrows draw a sympathetic close and his lips are between his teeth in an attempt not to laugh. "I was determined never to see George - erm, Chris Hemsworth's abs - again though so I _speed walked._ Literally as fast as I could away. Luckily _Grinders_ was near and dear God I needed coffee." 

Oli sighs, perfectly aware of just how bad Clay's coffee obsession has become. Or, well, has always been. "You must've been there for like, what? Two hours? Bloody hell, Clay, were you having a wank in the back or something?" Oli's grin is enough to make Clay's mortified look turn into a bright red blush as he grabs a nearby pillow and whacks Oliver up the side of the head with it. 

"Er, I will have you know I had my coffee and left - until I spilt it on George." Clay recalls.

"You didn't." Oli gasps. It's rare they seem to talk about Clay's love life at all. He kind of likes it, it's been a while since he's had one. Clay's body leans forward as Oli opts to place his drink with his discarded book, pulling the pillow Clay hurdled at him and cradling it like a child would a stuffed animal.

"I did." Clay sighs, "But then I was like 'oh, hey, I'm the _Fifty Shades_ bloke, sorry let me buy you a coffee?', right? And so we're in line, my soul is evaporating from my body and I buy him the coffee." Clay smiles, thinking about the next part, "And I'm about to walk home but I feel a tug on my sleeve and this bitch asks me to sit with him! Like a date, Oli!" Clay's beaming. Just saying it aloud is enough to remind him of the freckly constellation on his new friends shoulders, and the black jumper paws that draped over Clay's hands every so often and honey and lime. And Clay is beaming.

He explains the rest, Oli putting the correct inputs in the correct places. He explains how they didn't even bother touching the coffees as they were too busy looking at each other, and how George's smile can light up the sun time and time again. He explains how George actually found his idiocy charming, and how he never knew the meaning of art until he heard George creaking Clay's name out between laughs and oh, God, he was beautiful. By the end of it, Clay comes to a short revelation. He forgot to ask George's number.

He mentally scolds himself then. How is he supposed to contact his new friend now without any way to contact him? He can't just open a window and scream his name! And he certainly can't just walk into George's store without any reason to. Only, Clay has a reason. And his world brightens just a little bit, just as a lamp would a room, and his posture straightens, and his eyes trail to his pockets.

He left his wallet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO!! holy shit i forgot to mention this is very british hello im lea i am british jfsdhkj but woo yeah ignore that i wouldve made oli sapnap but that is far too much effort i am Sorry fjsdhk anywhoooooo hope u enjoyed the chapter !! comment if u want i just wanna interract with people honestly hfdkhs i hope ur all having a wonderful time period i love u all so much mwah :D


	4. Chapter 4

Sunlight pours through the windows into the lecture hall. Water bottles set upon desks reflect rainbows of light onto the walls and hands of students, whilst the cool breeze of the few open windows create a welcome escape from the volcanic temperatures London's being forced to endure. Clay stands at the front of the room, trying his best not to just read from the slides that presents behind him. ‘Trying’ possibly being the highlighted word. 

His gaze keeps reaching the clock, or his watch, or his desk which homes his phone and other personal items. His voice comes out robotic and impatient. All he has to do is explain a work task - as simple as the hills, he thinks. And yet his mind keeps drifting towards curly brown hair, rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes. His hands tap his sides in a pattern of what he can just recognise to be _The Imperial March_ though for all his music abilities are worth, he could easily be drumming the beat of something _incredibly_ different.

“Erm, yeah, just - watch the play, write an essay. You’ll be here tomorrow anyways, I’ll explain more then but uh, okay! Watch the play tonight maybe and erm. . .” Clay is trailing. He can hear it in his tone and he can feel it in the way his students stare at him as if he's speaking German. He steals himself a moment to breathe, to admire the sheer lack of professionalism and how the Hell he manages to secure a job when he walks into work a rambling mess. He knows, deep down, it’s rare he’s like this. But he pays no mind to that and instead to the whispers of _is he okay?_ his students are providing. Clay ends up dismissing the lecture early, there isn’t much need for it to have dragged on and he needs to see George. So with a quick apology to his students and the agonising five minutes or so it takes for them to all walk out, Clay heads out the building.

The moment his boots hit the cobblestone, he allows himself a breath of the slightly polluted air. Looking around, Clay notes the beginnings of Summer showing throughout the streets he hardly pays any mind to on a normal day. This isn’t a normal day, though. He gets to see George. 

Clay’s regard drags towards the flowers in the shop's hanging plants. What once were filled to the brim with bluebells and daffodils, now host an array of begonias and petunias. Summer seems to be finding its footing as yesterday’s heavy rainfall has been replaced by today’s volcano eruption of a temperature. It’s safe to say, it’s bloody roasting.

As Clay skips along the pavement, he takes his time admiring the shops perched on either side of him. He continues walking along blissfully until he reaches a music shop, tucked awkwardly between an adult shop and toy store. Clay stops for a second and peers through the glass, focusing on what looks to be a grand piano standing in the middle of the room. The sight alone is enough to remind Clay of when he was a little child. Every time he would have a bad day, or get injured, or wanted to spend time with his mum, she would sit him down on the piano stool and play him _Clair De Lune_ until he was feeling better. Even now whenever Clay has off days, he’ll call his mum, an absolute mess, and she’ll put him on speaker, sit down at the piano and play to him.

The fog his breathing leaves on the glass slowly disappears as Clay smiles to himself and continues down the road until he stumbles across his favourite shop in the entirety of Soho - _Grinders._ Somehow, despite the. . . interesting. . . name, the café has managed to create some of the best, and cheaper, coffees in all of London. Or, at least, it’s the closest café to his college that’s open around the usual times he’s in classes and affordable. All in all, the best café in London.

Clay steps into the building and towards the counter, only having to wait a moment behind a few customers before he can order anything. Once the blonde lady in front of him finishes ordering, Clay steps up to the counter being instantly greeted by Edna. Over the years of coming to the coffee shop almost daily, Clay’s managed to befriend the co-owners, Edna and Ruth. The couple act like mothers to the lad and, due to the slightly long distance between Clay and his real parents, he couldn’t be more thankful for them.

“Oh, Clay!” Edna exclaims upon seeing the man, “How was work? Just the regular?” Clay can’t stop the smile that tapes onto his face as Edna bombards him with the usual questions. Her hands loosen on the counter. He noticed that around a year back, and when he questioned the old woman about it, she explained it helped her remember to smile at the customers. Clay’s glad she doesn’t have to grab the counters for him.

“Good, good, yeah. One of my classes got cancelled due to a class trip so I only had intro to lit today. How’s about you?” Edna always appreciates getting asked about her day but she never truly responds with more than a small wave of her hand and a;

“Not too bad, no.” Clay loves the familiarity of conversations with Edna he once found annoying and frustrating. Over time he’s come to realise it’s just the way she chooses to communicate. “What would you like then? Ruth’s just added the ice tees back onto the menu which means I could probably sneak you an extra three pumps of caffeine and a jar of sugar.” 

Clay thinks for a moment. George never did drink his coffee yesterday and he _is_ on his way to the shop anyways. He owes George a coffee then, and he can easily just give it to him in short while. “Ed, you can’t just give me an offer like that and _not_ expect me to salivate.” He laughs, “I’ll take. . . two of those? Yeah, two of those - please.” 

Edna gives him a look but decides to ignore it. She tells him the amount due, though he’s certain he’s memorised all the prices by now, and they chat a bit whilst, what he assumes to be, a university student makes his drinks. Eventually Edna hands the man the drinks and Clay begins his trek to The bookshop, worried George will be weirded out by Clay bringing him drinks. Oh well, he thinks, the shop will probably be empty anyways.

-

The shop is not empty. Clay steps in and is almost instantly greeted by a cluster of customers either standing in line, searching through the shelves to find a particular novel, or in one of the many chairs, reading. 

He's almost up and leaves upon seeing a person at the till that doesn’t seem to be George, but rather a teenager with completely contrasting features. She partially looks like a female Clay, he muses. Just as he’s a step away from the door, he realises the real reason he’s here - his wallet. Sighing inwardly, he decides to wait in line for the first of all times he’s been to the shop - which is only twice, including this (and he’s fairly certain the first time he came the door had a ‘closed’ sign on it).

And so Clay waits for a solid few moments, getting an almost staggering feeling of Deja vu from the coffee shop, before finally being able to express his issues to the lady at the counter. “Erm, hello, sorry - but I came here yesterday and left my wallet. Is there a lost and found?” He will never forgive himself for having inescapable social awkwardness.

The lady smiles and nods her head, “Oh, yes actually! Erm, just in Davidson’s office which should be just down the hall, to the left.” She points behind herself, towards the hallway. Clay sputters out a ‘thanks’ and follows her directions before coming face to face with a mahogany door.

The door has a small sign laminated onto it that reads _‘G. Davidson- Office’_. Clay stands for a moment at the closed door, staring at the drinks in his hands, wondering how the fuck he’s supposed to knock without getting any ice tea on his hands. Eventually, he sighs, realising there’s no possible way to do that without having to put the drinks on the ground. Clay does not want to have to crouch down. He raises his fist and taps two seconds worth of the _Mario Theme_ , stopping when he hears “Come in.” from a familiar voice.

Clay struggles for a moment, using his elbow to push down the door handle then shoulders his way into the room. He stands awkwardly, smiling as he finds his feet tapping a random tune onto the floor.. “Hi, I - uh - I left my wallet here yesterday.” 

George grins up at him, not for the first time and oh, God, his eyes are amber and diamonds and Clay is finding it hard not to actually melt into a pile of smitten on George’s laminate floorboards. “Oh, yeah, guess you did.” George turns his attention towards his desk for a moment, pulling open a drawer and he takes out Clay’s wallet. “How the actual Hell did you forget this, mate? You didn’t even have to pay for anything.” George’s laugh cascades through the room, Clay feels like it’s been centuries since he’s heard it. In reality, it’s been less than eighteen hours. But George’s eyes sparkle at Clay, and his arm is stretched out to Clay, and he can make out little sharpie notes on George’s arms. Maybe, just maybe, Clay feels his heart expand painfully in his chest when he looks at George. Maybe, just maybe, Clay has never felt such an incredible emotion before.

Clay accepts the wallet, brushing fingers with George's briefly and basking in the utter warmth he feels. “Honestly, I’m not too sure either. Then again, I am the same person who forgot my grandma in Aldi’s - this doesn’t even reach my top ten ‘what the fuck, Clay?’ moments.” He sighs, remembering the way his nan had called him explaining she was stuck in the nappy section whilst Clay was near Heathrow. Not his finest moment, he’ll admit.

“You forgot your grandma? I - you know what, maybe I shouldn’t ask.” There it was, the glint in George’s eyes he got whenever he was stuck between laughing and sitting in awe. Clay can’t help but choose to do the latter. 

“It was an honest mistake, really!” He tries to defend himself, truly. But he can hardly speak between laughs and how pretty George looks.

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t even think I should let you go home now, you’ll probably end up befriending a pack of stray dogs and getting rabies or something.”

“Nah, already did that last week.” Clay jokes, winking at George. “Thinking this week I’ll try to take over the capitalistic market - wish me luck.” They both laugh, George clutching his sides and leaning over his desks, Clay chuckling slightly - focusing more on the way George’s eye’s crinkle at the side when he’s happy. Clay thinks he likes George’s eye crinkles. Clay thinks he likes George.

Once George calms down and Clay manages to hide the grin the other man paints on his face simply by existing, Clay remembers the drinks in his hands. “Oh, shit, I got this for you, by the way. We never really got a chance to have coffee properly last time and I was at _Grinder’s_ anyways so, uh - hope you like ice tea.” Clay stumbles, awkwardly placing George’s coffee on his desk.

George full on grins up at Clay, saying a small “Thanks” as he takes a sip from his drink. George doesn’t intend it, but he groans almost as soon as the tea reaches his mouth. It’s fucking incredible. 

“‘S good, right?”

“Literally incredible, how have I lived without this?” George chuckles, smiling at Clay. They spend a few minutes talking about shit all, before Clay realises George probably has actual work to do, and a practically stranger distracting him with conversations about _Minecraft_ are most definitely not helping him. So, Clay announces his need to depart, albeit very hesitantly. 

“Right, well, I better head off - takes far too long to take over capitalism, honestly. There should be a course for it.” George smiles at Clay, wishing him a goodbye as he walks towards the door, whistling the _X-Files_ theme. 

Just as his hand is touching the door handle, George asks him a question. “Are you whistling the Illuminati song?” Clay stops dead in his tracks, turns around and gapes at George.

“Are you - have you - it’s _X-Files!_ Have you never watched _X-Files_?” Clay stumbles over his words, unsure how to word his actual betrayal at his new friend not knowing television history.

“Oh, no not really - bought it a few years back but keep forgetting to watch it." George hesitates his next words, thinking them over before, very hesitantly, speaking again. "Maybe we could watch it sometime - together, I mean.” George smiles gently at his hands, eyes soft as moonlight and smile as pure as the sun. Clay can only imagine himself as the planets, spending all their days orbiting George’s beauty.

“I’d like that, yeah. I’m free Friday? Like, if you are - obviously, sorry.”

“That’s perfect! It’s a date, then.”

“It’s a date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! fun fact controversial opinion ive never actually really watched the x files past me just needed a bridge so sad hfjsdkh but yes yes ive come to the conclusion . this just isnt their personalities at all which like . oops .fhdsjk EITHER WAY i hope u enjoyed the chapter!! comment if u want it means a lot rlly i hope u all have a wonderful time period i love u all so so much mwah :D


	5. Chapter 5

Clay will be the first person on Earth to admit he's not the brightest of all people. Sure, he has a decently prestigious degree and uses it for a fairly prestigious job, but all that education based intellect never did translate into basic human smart-ness. He's been attacked by namely every species on this Earth, accidentally gotten high on more than one occasion due to using Sharpie to mark papers (or nail paint at one dark, dark time in his life), Hell, he's left behind so many elderly people when volunteering at old age homes he's shocked he never lost his ability to volunteer anywhere ever. And yet, as he sits on the sofa, cup of coffee in hand, flat mate staring judgmentally from the kitchen, he truly believes he has reached a new low. 

Oliver leans against the kitchen cabinets, sighing at Clay for what is nowhere near the first time, and surely not the last. His dark hands trace the brim of his mug as he stares at his friend. "You're a proper idiot, you know that, right?" Clay knows it's just a joke on Oliver's behalf, but he also knows it's the truth. He nods solemnly, feeling the need to crack up at how stupid the whole ordeal is. He doesn't - not yet at least. "How the bloody fuck did you manage to get a date and not his number?" Clay notes the bewilderment in Oli's tone. It's understandable, he thinks.

Clay stops, thinking back to the conversation. "It just - it never came up." He sulks. Deep down, he realises he's taking this too seriously. It's just someone he's known for three days and - _it's only been three days?!_ Clay doesn't concentrate on Oli's rebuttals to his flimsy excuse, in favour of questioning the existence of time. Surely it's been _at least_ a week, maybe a month? 

"Why can't you just go back to the shop? Bloke's probably pissing himself over this too." It can't have been such little time, that would mean they've only spoken a total of - three times. Oh, shit. Maybe he's rushing things? He couldn't have developed such a liking for someone this soon. Then again he and Oli did call themselves best friends after only two weeks - "Clay? You okay?"

Clay blinks harshly, his vision blurring for a moment as it slowly focuses back into crystal clarity. Or, well, only partial blindness. He forgot to put his contacts in this morning. His mind skims over what Oli says, admitting it isn't the worst of all ideas, but it certainly isn't plausible. "I can't go to the shop. That would mean I've been to his place of _work_ everyday since I've met him. That's a bit too creepy for me, no thanks." Oliver stands proper, walking to the sink and pouring the remainders of his quarter-filled cup out. He washes the dish whilst talking, Clay's known him long enough to make out what he's saying barely.

"I just -" _clink_ "- Where you're coming from-" _splash_ "- Get yourself out there -" _clatter_ "- How can I live vicariously through your love life if -" _ring._ They both stop, dead in their tracks at the ringing sound. That's a new one from Clays limited dishwasher knowledge. Their eyes flutter towards Oli's phone, sitting perched on the counter. Oliver puts the mug down, turns off the tap and dries his hands before he works up the courage to walk up towards the counter.

Clay stands still. Quietly waiting for Oli to answer. "It's an unknown number." Oli states, confused. He glances towards Clay in question who simply shrugs. Oli turns back to the phone, noting it's on one of it's final rings, and picks it up before it rings out. "Erm, hello?" Clay motions, asking who it is as Oli responds with overexaggerated shrugs and shushes. 

Clay sighs, walking over to the kitchen and sitting himself on the counter. Oli swats his leg as Clay rolls his eyes, plops his head in his knees and stares at the phone conversation intensely until Oli says a quick "Aight, thanks." and hangs up.

"So, who was it?" Clay asks, fully investing himself in Oliver's phone call now. God, he truly needs to get a life. 

"Phone company - apparently _somebody_ forgot to pay their bills this month." Clay shrugs sheepishly, gazing at the floor as he drops his hands to his sides. Oliver's eyebrows are raised in a self satisfied smirk. 

"So that's why my signal’s been fucked up." He mutters to himself. Clay has been so lonely without his phone signal, he's resorted to actually going outside and doing Oli’s laborious tasks after walking aimlessly around the flat for upwards of three hours started becoming unhealthy.

“Guess it is. Paid now, don’t worry. We really need to put you on an automatic plan.” Oli laughs, fully aware of Clay’s somewhat unwarranted and very unnecessary dislike of automatic plans.

“The day I get an automatic plan is the day God says fuck it.” Clay takes a sip from his coffee, bounces off the cabinet and wanders off into the living room again.

-

It’s Thursday morning when Oli gets a call from another unknown number. Both himself and Clay are sitting in the staff room, comparing lecture plans when the obnoxiously loud buzzing noise rings throughout the room. Oli sighs, expresses a quick apology and answers. 

Clay can only make out Oliver’s side of the conversation from where he’s positioned. “Oliver, speaking.” Clay notes the little phone intro Oli has learnt to adapt over his years of teaching. “Oh, hi! Nice to finally meet you, yeah.” Clay’s interest peaks at that. “Mhm, yeah, he’s just here now actually - I’ll pass you along.”

Oli turns his attention towards Clay and hands him the phone, whispering a short _It’s George_ before completely bouldering Clay into the deep end. Confusion settles on his face as he grabs the phone hesitantly. “Erm, I - hello?” 

A small chuckle can be heard from across the call and for the first time since Tuesday, Clay feels utterly light. Completely and wholeheartedly like a rose on a growing vine. Covered by thorns but covered by beauty. “Hi. God, we’re idiots, aren’t we?” 

His chest rises and he’s not sure it’ll ever fall again. Clay shocks himself when he hears his own slightly static laugh from the caller echo. Despite both himself and clarity, Clay finds himself perfectly understanding what George means. “We really are, yeah.” Clay pauses, a block of confusion stronger than the first bout coming into fruition. “Sorry, not to be a downer - but how exactly did you get this number?” 

Clay can hear George’s grin from literally miles away. “Just typed in all the number combinations I could think of and got lucky.” Clay genuinely ponders this for a moment, whilst George laughs. “Erm, no, not actually. At risk of sounding like a stalker, it was purely for tomorrow night's details! But I, uh, I might’ve checked the order records from Oliver’s book, found his phone number then called.” There’s a long pause before George continues talking again. “Oh, God. Sounds even worse out loud.” 

Clay laughs, calming George's nerves. “‘S alright, really. I’m honestly glad you did, you have no idea how much I had to talk myself out going to the shop.” There’s a hint of a joke in Clay’s tone he hopes George focuses on. In reality, Clay _did_ have to talk himself out of seeing George. Far more than once.

George doesn’t hesitate, however. “You should’ve.” There’s not a single hint of a joke there.

Clay pulls down on the collar of his shirt, the blush dusting his cheeks forming paths to his neck and back. God, he wishes he had. Clay coughs, regains his composure and speaks - determined to set a light hearted atmosphere rather than confront his emotions. “Yeah, well, I guess we’ll see just how much you mean that tomorrow.” 

“I will.” He laughs and George laughs and it’s supposed to be a joke. It’s supposed to be nothing but a simple joke. But George means it with all his being and Clay feels it with all his soul. He hope’s Clay will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! welcome welcome more chapters will be published tomorrow i promise ! but rn it is 5am on a school night and i have to wake up at 8 this was a MISTAKE fhsjdkh but oh well oh well hi hello howre u :D i hope ur all doing well!! anywho anywho i hope u enjoyed the chapter! next one is . pure fluff . if i remember correctly hfjsdk but yeah! hope u have a wonderful time period i love u all so so much mwah :D


	6. Chapter 6

Friday rolls around quicker than George deems reasonable. By four o'clock, he stands in front of his full length mirror, running a hand through his mop of a trim. His wooden floors have turned into a carpet - courtesy of his clothes and indecisiveness - and every time he thinks about Clay his heart contracts. George almost compares it to labour in his heart, then reminds himself it's truly not. He laughs a bit at the comparison though, the image of a baby crawling out of his heart a more than welcome distraction from the shameless worrying he manages to bury himself alive in. 

Every few minutes, his eyes trace his phone and the idea of calling Clay, faking an illness and getting the fuck out of tonight pops into his mind. Missing out on a date with Clay is worse than going on a date with Clay, George thinks. Or is it a date? Did Clay even mean it in a 'date' way or was he meaning platonically? What if Clay was only planning this date so he could laugh at George for even _thinking_ Clay's non-date-date-prank is a date? What if- George sighs, runs his hand over his jeans and stares at his eyes from the mirror. He hates that they’ve become glassy. He hates how fast he thinks Clay hates him. He hates his _mind._ The fact that it can shoot fire to his veins and still laugh at him. George's posture loosens, he sinks to the floor shakily, and presses his throbbing head into his hands. 

His bedroom feels grey. Too grey. The monochrome aesthetic no longer feels like comfort, but loneliness. Reminding him again and again like a knife to his chest that he’s alone. George’s vision clouds into solidarity and a tunnel. A tunnel that makes him wonder for a brief second if he will ever be able to see again. Maybe this would be easier if he had glasses. He’ll ask his therapist that next session, he notes. 

It clicks then, as he’s sat a pile of ashes on the pile of his clothes. His therapist. This is what they’ve been trying to work over. He needs to remember to breathe, drink some water maybe? Yeah, water. That'll help.

George tries to get up four times, each time his legs become too shaky and his head feels like lead and his torso becomes a chain tying his body to his barely functioning brain. On the fifth try, however, he successfully gets up and stumbles over to his kitchen, his throat tight and his breaths laboured. He can do this, he can get through the evening. Everything will be fine if he just _breathes._ The journey from the doorway to the sink is much longer than George feels comfortable expressing. His lungs are on fire and so is his vision. He’s stuck in a tunnel and his veins are pummelling him down a road at a speed that’s _far too fast_. George’s skeleton becomes a tsunami as they flood his body with a rush of pain and heaviness. 

His hands fumble with the tap, his body shaking as the rush of water reaches his cupped palms. The stark change in temperature jolts his body into a realisation he's still here, at least. George swears he can hear the sizzling of his skin being put out by the running liquid. He thinks of the affirmations that help him. He can be helped right now. He just needs to think. He's still alive and well and on this planet. He's not on fire, he's not a ghost - he's a person. A regular person about to do a regular thing.

It takes a while before it fully stops. Before his mind calms down and he’s no longer crying, but staring numbly. Until he can register the tremors in his hands as temporary - not a fatality.

He hasn't stopped shaking but he's stopped crying. His mind's no longer screaming unease and panic at him, it's background noise. It's white noise as he stares at the water. It's white noise as he stands for ten minutes, willing his body to stop moving. It's white noise when he manages to get off the counter and move for a shower. 

The dull after-buzz leaves him staring at the grey, slightly moulding tiles on the walls as his clothes, again, get discarded on the floor. George doesn’t wait for the shower to reach a reasonable temperature as he turns it on. He just steps into it as his mind barely registers the water falling onto his skin as water, not knives. 

George stands there for a moment too long, he thinks. He doesn’t actually give himself time to wash himself as his mind turns into a beehive and honey. Not slick, not sweet. A sticky mess and far too loud. Far too much. He doesn’t tremble when he stands anymore, but he floats. He floats through the hallway to his bedroom and sits in nothing but a towel and dripping hair. He looks over down at his bed, noticing he never made it this morning. _Why didn’t he make it this morning?_ George traces his duvet with his hand, before deciding he needs to correct this morning's mistake. He’ll make his bed. He’ll tidy his room. He’ll be okay.

It takes a while, but he finishes the tasks. George cleans his room, still in a towel. He doesn’t think about that though. He thinks about the way his mind’s no longer focusing on Clay or rejection or the stupid little thing that sent his mind into a firecracker and a petrol spillage, but how he’s thinking of his hands moving one object to another. He focuses on his legs pulling him to the sheet’s cabinet and pulling out fresh linen. It’s small, but it’s comforting. It’s enough.

Eventually he no longer has a bedroom to clean, but himself. He remembers Clay agreed to arrive at George’s place at eight. He walks to the kitchen in search of his phone. His hands clap firmly to the device as soon as it comes into his vision, eyes fully popping out his skull as the bright numbers of ‘ **19:48** ’ appear on the screen, illuminating his face a sickly pale. He looks down, his towel draping across his hips surely not enough of an outfit. So he runs. He runs into his room (no reason needed considering his one bedroom flat isn’t doing wonders space wise) and pulls his cupboard open. 

Life seems to slowly be returning to his brain as he rummages through the dresser until he comes across black trousers and a similarly coloured jumper. Numbness still grips his body and drags him around like a ragdoll, but he’s slowly regaining control. He’s slowly becoming less of a figment of his own imagination. Once George finishes getting dressed he pauses. A momentary thought popping into his mind that plants itself there and creates a plantation of serotonin. He grins to himself, for the first time in hours, and heads to the bathroom. He doesn’t look at the mirror as he walks.

The bathroom door is left open, and so he walks in. His knees ache as he crouches down, making eye level with the hidden cabinet and pulls out a box. George feels himself become giddy almost as he rummages through it, until he comes across three extremely important items. Mascara, blush and lip gloss. It’s the perfect plan, really. Makeup makes him look great, and feel good plus it’s a calming technique. This is possibly the best idea he’s had in ages.

It takes a good few minutes before he's completely finished, his hands still occupied with the lip gloss when a knock sounds at the door. George smiles as he quickly finishes applying the gloss, shoves the box to the corner of the room and stands straight, letting out a deep breath as he treads over to the door. _He can do this._

George opens the door softly, a grand contrast to the way Clay opened the door during their first meeting. The hallway lights from outside his flat desperately need to be changed, but even the half-broken bulbs don’t hesitate in making Clay look more perfect than he actually is. George finds himself looking at Clay in his entirety. From his somehow immaculately styled quiff, to the black and green jumper drooping past his collarbones, leaning off of the grey joggers decorating his legs. Finally his eyes land on Clay's’ hands. There, trapped in pale skin and clenched fists, are a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of rosé. George almost expects a look of sheepishness or disgust when he looks up at the other man, and so the look of awe strapped to Clay's face leaves George staggered. 

George looks down at the floor, a smile dusting his face. He waves small at Clay. “Hi.” The other man blinks rapidly, his mouth still stuck in that awe-stricken expression like sharpie to a white jumper. He rushes to greet George, shoving the items in his hand in the general direction of the man. 

“He- hi.” Clay stumbles, “I, erm, I got these for you -for us - I mean! Unless, unless, you know, you. . . want. . .” Clay looks up at George’s amused grin. And George thought _he_ was going to be the idiot, he thinks. “I’m gonna shut up now.” Clay sighs, looking at the brunet's bemused giggles as he accepts Clay’s gifts.

“Thanks.” George bites his lip to conceal his grin. A moment of realisation arises as he remembers to invite Clay into his house. “Oh! Come in, come in, please. I’ve got the living room set up and everything. I expect nothing but greatness from this, Clay.” George jokes, wagging his finger at the man.

“You deserve nothing less.” He smiles.


	7. Chapter 7

Clay stands outside what he hopes is George's address. His hands are shaking to the point he fears the bottle of rosé will make like Coke and Mentos when they open it. He holds the bottle pressed against the sunflower bouquet he found sitting alone in the isles of Asda. Maybe he should've gotten another bouquet. A different one - a better one. Clay sighs, he needs to stop overthinking. They're two friends going on a maybe-date. It's simple. It's all simple.

Clay breathes in and raises his fist to knock, a little bit harder than he anticipated. After a minute or so of shuffling from inside the flat, the door swings open and there stands George. George who's dressed in loose black trousers and an equally dark jumper. George who's smiling at Clay with stars in his eyes and craters in his cheeks. George who's lashes are dark and cheeks are rosy and - put makeup on? Clay stands in awe, staring at the man who somehow manages to look even more incredible the more Clay sees him. 

Eventually, after a few moments of silence and George ushering Clay, he stands inside George's flat. The brightness from inside deeply contrasts with the dull hall. Despite the clear lack of colours, Clay finds character in every direction he turns. George takes Clay into the living room, and sits him on the single, extremely tiny, sofa. He’s sure George doesn’t get many guests.

Clay sits awkwardly against the corner of the sofa, trying not to melt into the fabric whenever George smiles sheepishly at him. A look of recollection paints itself onto George’s face as he holds up his index finger, indicating he’ll be gone for only a minute.

Clay takes this opportunity to admire the place. A television is placed directly above an electric fireplace, all monochrome in colour despite the numerous shades of what he assumes to be Bake Off playing on mute. The grey sofa hosts two pillows, one grey, one white, both crumpled into what appears to be a body-shaped dent. George must spend quite a bit of time on this sofa, Clay muses. The one bit of colour in the entire room comes courtesy of the shelf in the far left of the room, hosting an array of DVDs, books, video games and board games. Clay notes one too many titles he recognises from his childhood or days in film club from secondary, and one too many titles he doesn’t recognise at all. If all goes well, maybe he’ll find out about them on a future date.

“Your place is so -” He starts, ready to compliment the aesthetics of his new friend’s flat. 

Clay hears clattering from the kitchen and a quick interruption. George’s voice goes a little louder than usual due to the distance between them both. “Grey?” George asks. Clay can hear the smile in George's voice, along with the slight melancholy. Maybe George’s not too fond of the place.

“I was actually going to say cool but yeah, I guess that works too.”

“Grey’s cool then, huh?” George laughs, voice loud over the pouring and movement coming from throughout the kitchen. Clay pauses and thinks it over before answering, his voice a thoughtful hum.

“Yeah, it is. Like a 21st century daguerreotype.” There it is again, that bubbly laugh that somehow catches Clay off guard every single time. He wonders if his heart is trying to communicate ‘boy pretty!’ through its off beats and warm tugs. It wouldn’t be the only thing to think that.

“Daguerreotype, hey? Never thought English professor Clay would pull out his thesaurus just to tell me my flat looks like a shitty black and white picture.” The fondness drips through his tone like honey, sweet and smooth and Clay has to look away from the nothing he’s looking at just to process what George’s saying. 

“You know what a daguerreotype is?” He questions. Possibly safer than swallowing George in every compliment under the sun and above the moon. Not exactly what Clay wants though.

George’s voice becomes far clearer as he walks into the living room, two glasses of an unidentifiable liquid in hand. “Bookshops get slow some days, and the amount of novels on random crap is somehow a lot more than you’d think.” He quips, shaking his head with a smile, “Drink?” 

Clay nods, accepting the glass from George’s outstretched hand. “Please.” George walks over to the bookshelf, searching for the DVD boxset they both agreed to watch. After a few moments of silence, ignoring the sounds of plastic hitting plastic and the occasional noise of surprise George makes whenever he accidentally drops a DVD, he finds one labelled ‘The X-Files’. Slotting the disk into the player, George makes his way over towards Clay and sits down on the opposite end of the sofa.

“Ready for cinematic history?” Clay questions, a grin devouring his face.

“As I’ll ever be.”

-

It takes a good few episodes for both George and Clay to be pissed off their faces. With both Clay's rosé and a bottle of rum completely gone and the show completely discarded, both men sit as close as atoms, somehow discussing fuck all whilst meaning the whole universe. The topic somehow ends up on their childhood, as they slur through odd questions and the like.

“What about nicknames?” George questions, eyeing up Clay's not-so-sober complexion.

“I got called a lot of shit growing up.” Clay winks. George scrunches up his nose is faux disgust, urging his friend to continue. "I mean, the one that stuck the most I guess was 'Dream'."

George hums thoughtfully, thinking over this newly found information. "Dream?"

“Yeah, my - uh - my family used to call me it," Clay smiles. A brief memory of his mum crowning the nickname to him after winning a sports game slowly surfaces into his mind. The delicate smile slowly fades away as he remembers what his father told him that night. Clay coughs subtly, leaning back into a joking smirk. He's not a child anymore, he doesn't need to think about those things. "I mean, can't blame them really - have you looked at me?" He jokes, flexing what little muscle the teaching profession allows him to obtain.

George covers his laugh with a blush, reaching across the sofa to lightly push Clay. "You're such an idiot." A thought slowly claws its way through George's head. "'S a cute nickname though. Suits you."

Clay feels stars in the pits of his stomach as he mulls over what he's about to say. There's no part that he believes will come to regret this, however. "You know, you can use it if you like." George brightens at this, eyes beaming through Clay's mind and smile grazing his cheeks as a deep cut would. A silence overtakes them after that, a comforting numbness to Clay's hysterically beating heart and George's rose coloured cheeks blooming across Clay's vision.

He’s not sure if it’s the alcohol in his system that causes himself to do this, but he’s certain he’ll blame his actions on it later as Clay reaches forward and tucks a stray curl behind George's ear, muttering something along the lines of “So pretty.”

George hums, eyes golden and stars captured as he leans so softly into Clay's palm. Clay thinks of how beautiful George looks, how wonderfully soft and vibrant he looks. Clay thinks of how close they are, how easy it would be to just lean over, to kiss George. He doesn’t. He might be absolutely hammered to Hell and back, but he knows he wants to be sober if or when he decides to kiss George. He wants it to be special.

Not that sitting on the sofa of a man he’s known for less than a week, ignoring television history to look at stars and suns in each other's eyes, feeling their wax wings melting into flowers and plums isn’t special. Clay just wants something beautiful. Something as wonderful as each other. 

The world goes quiet then, not even the traffic from outside intruding on the world they create. Nothing penetrates the softness of it all, or the gold flakes in George’s eyes, or the slow beats of their hearts syncing into one. They stay like that for a long while, appreciating their gentle breaths as Clay's hand cups George’s cheek.

Clay doesn’t allow himself to kiss George, not on the lips, no. He won’t allow himself to do something like that until he can fully savour the moment. He does allow himself to lean down and kiss George on the forehead, not missing when George’s eyes flutter shut and a small hum breaks the silence. 

“Hey, Dream?” George asks, voice as tiny as the rest of the world in the eyes of Clay. Completely miniscule when George Davidson is sitting right next to him, and using nicknames Clay hasn't heard in years, and looking at Clay like that. Like Clay just formed the stars and the moons, as if George didn’t capture them all in his eyes. Clay hums in acknowledgment, urging George to continue. He sighs, melting further into Clay. “I like you a lot.”

If Clay wasn’t sure his heart had exploded before, he would’ve thought it had now. Maybe it does a bit. Or a lot. Definitely a lot. Clay’s smile can be seen from space, he’s sure of it. He moves back to face George better, the brunette pouts at the removal of warmth Clay provided as it disappears. “Hey, George?”

George mimics Clay's hum, Clay continues. “I like you a lot, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELO!! welcome welcome very much a fluff chapter ikik sorry about the first half tho but wooooo !! we're on chapter seven :D apparently editing and changing details which pretty much embed books is not as easy as u might think lmao fhdsjkh but yes yes i hope u enjoyed the chapter !! pls feel free to comment n shit it helps a lot and its genuinely just really nice to see i hope u have an incredible time period i love u all so so much mwah :D


	8. Chapter 8

George sometimes forgets just how busy his shop can get. Even a tucked away building in the middle of London somehow hosts what feels like millions of people every single day. Sometimes he's the only one on shift, some days he's grateful he's not. Today falls under the latter. The sky turns pink as the sun starts to set down below the waters. According to his forecaster app, a full moon's expected to show tonight. He doesn't have much time to think of that, however, as a tall man walks into the shop and asks of his assistance.

"Hi, I'm looking for this bloke, yay high, brown hair, bit of an idiot.” The man says, dirty blond quiff glowing in the light, a smile reflecting in the coffees he carries. George beams upon seeing Dream, all the worries from today’s shift evaporating into the sun like spilled water. This has become a ritual of sorts since the X-Files not-so-marathon a month previous. Clay comes over to the shop after his lectures end, baring coffee for both himself and George. It’s nice. It’s just them.

George gasps exaggeratedly and shoves Clay gently, “And here I was thinking you were pretty.” They’ve developed a nice in between. A relationship without all the . . . well, relationship. Clay smiles gently at George, a look they’ve both become so familiar with recently. It still doesn’t make George's heart beat any less fast though. 

“You think I’m pretty?” Clay questions, eyes golden and gaze rosy. George’s sure he’s called Dream pretty more times than he can count on one hand in the past few days and yet Clay still acts with as much pure smitten as he can muster up. 

“Only because you brought me coffee.” George smiles innocently, taking his cup from Dream's hand and poking him gently, “Now you’re a troll.” He laughs. Clay pouts, sticks his tongue out at George and lets the room fall into a silence.

They watch as customers stroll around the store, captured in a bubble of pure elegance. Turning chapters from books they’ve yet to read and stalking isles of genres they’re yet to experience. Just watching the exchange between paper and person is such an intimate thing. It leaves George with such an intimate lust for second hand knowledge. 

It’s Clay who breaks the silence, glimmering eyes watching the calm buzz of the shop. “You excited for tonight?” He questions. They both decided the morning after the marathon to meet up once a week for a friendly (definitely not a date) date night.

George gins, “As I’ll ever be. You’re picking the restaurant right?” It isn’t a date, per se, more so a friendly platonic gathering at a remotely fancy eating establishment. Just like two friends do. Platonic with a capital ‘p’.

Dream nods, turning his full attention towards his friend. “Mhm. Found this Italian place down Mayfair. Booked for half six.” George smiles to himself, eyes to his hands, fiddling with his fingers. 

“Sounds great, you have no idea how good carbonara sounds right now.”

Clay breathes out a laugh, “It’s like we have joint cravings.” His eyes glance towards his watch, startling himself when the numbers ‘15:22’ make themselves known. “I should probably head off then, pick you up at 5?” Dream questions. George nods.

“See you, Dream.” He grins. Clay pulls George into a hug, kisses his forehead and walks out the door in a blaze of finger guns. They’re just platonic, George reminds himself. Nothing more, nothing less.

-

Clay stands in his flat, a black button-up in one hand and a white one in the other. He has exactly twenty minutes before he really needs to pick up George. “Ugh, I just don’t know what to wear.” He sighs. Oliver sits on the sofa, smirking amusingly at Clay’s struggles.

“God, are you sure you’s are just friends?” Oli asks, shaking his head, preparing for Clay’s ‘I just like making an effort’ speech which they’re both aware is complete and utter bullshit. Upon seeing Clay’s mouth open to begin said speech, Oli sighs, puts his finger up and stops him. “Save the speech, Clay. You wore joggers to meet my parents.”

Clay knows he’s putting a bit too much effort into impressing George but he can’t help it! Not when George walks like he’s swimming through cotton. Not when George talks like he’s crafting poetry with every word he speaks. Not when George looks like a flower garden and lakes of pottery. Not when George’s existence makes the galaxies and constellations crumble and falter out of awe. 

Oli sighs and motions his hand towards Clay’s left. “Go with black, it makes your eyes pop.”

Clay thanks Oli and runs back into his room, shoving his shirt on with a rushed delicacy. He has just enough time to messily style his hair into a quiff before he’s out the door, into his car and on the streets of London.

George’s house is no more than a five minute drive away, so Clay doesn’t have much time for a pep-talk. Instead, he stares at the passing roads and breathes as steadily as he can until the tall glass building that houses George appears in his frontal vision. He can do this. You can do this. 

There Clay is. Standing in front of the mahogany wood with the numbers ‘136’ etched into it. He steals himself and knocks. This time there’s no shuffling. There’s no waiting from behind the door. Instead, Clay barely completes the first three notes of the Mario theme before the door is hoisted open. And there he stands, covered in gold and diamonds and stars and angels, behind a blackened wardrobe and colourful makeup. There George stands, the loveliest sight Dream’s ever seen. He can hardly breathe.

“Hi.” George says, voice small but gorgeous. Clay never thought of accents as particularly pretty. Always something that was just. . . there. But George's voice drips elegance and honey and Clay - God, Clay is smitten.

“You - you look lovely.” Dream states in lieu of ‘hello’. He doesn’t mean to say it, but he’ll be damned to the ends of Hell before it becomes a lie. George’s cheeks dust a vibrant pink, akin to an orchid mid-Spring. His mouth curves upwards as he catches his bottom lip between his teeth. Clay takes back his previous statement. George doesn’t look lovely, no. George looks ethereal. Surreal and otherworldly. An angel captivated by elegance and gold. George is truly spectacular in the way he looks towards Clay and grabs his heart as though he’s holding his hand, and makes Dream feel like he could never do anything wrong. George is perfect.

“You don’t look too bad yourself.” George smiles, reaching out his hand to trace over Clay’s hand. Just platonic. Dream has to remind himself that when George grabs his hand. He has to remind himself that when George's eyes shine brighter than any star in any galaxy Clay's ever seen whenever he so much as enters George's peripheral vision. He has to remind himself that when George looks towards Clay and moves his mouth with such a soft elegance. “Ready?”

Clay breathes in. “As I’ll ever be.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! woowoowoo welcome welcome hope u all had a good day!! ngl the next chapter is one of my favourites in the book it is very hfjksdh youll see hfkjsd but yes hello hope u enjoyed ! ooooo drama is stirring between two defo just bros wonder what will happen who knows hfjksd OOH ALSO, very important disclaimer, pretty much every detail in this book is fact checked (I.E., what certain flowers mean, the actual distance between dream and george's in fic apartments, etc.) also very sorry for making it british again this is just another fic im writing but for this fandom idc anymore british dream we all needed it hjfsdhkjk anywhooooooooooo hope u enjoyed the chapter! have a wonderful time period i love u all so much mwah :D


	9. Chapter 9

Moonlight drips into the restaurant, reflecting cool beams of light on glasses and onto tables of wood and iron. George sits, hand on straw, yes glued to Clay, watching meticulously at the way his hands move around enthusiastically whilst telling a story. How Dream's eyes glow a light blue when he's talking about his family. Or how Clay never stops shining. He's just pure beauty sitting in the corner of a small Italian restaurant in London. He's just beauty.

"So then Mum was like-" He pauses, holds his hand to his mouth and laughs. George notes how Dream's eyes crinkle at the corners. He notes how much he wishes Clay wouldn't hide his laugh. "- 'That's bleach, Dream!'" The story continues. If this were any other person, George thinks, he would've zoned out by now. But it's Clay. And Clay's telling a story from his childhood, and telling George about his family and letting George in. Letting George experience the family memories he never got to when he was younger. It's nice. Really fucking nice.

“Dream!” George shrieks. He’s sure at least one pair of eyes are on them but he refuses to care. He’s having a non-date with his best friend. They can look. “How the ever loving fuck are you still alive.” He laughs, shaking his head. It’s all so sweet, all so pure. It’s just them and the candlelit dinner. It’ll always be just them. 

“A miracle, that’s how.” 

They talk for a while longer until the waiter arrives. George feels light, wonderfully and utterly light. Like a cloud caught in a rainbow. He’s never felt so pretty than when he’s with Clay. It’s nice, deep and true.

True to their words, they each agree to order carbonara. One portion to be precise. “Might as well, the sharing portion costs less.” Is what Clay excuses himself with. In reality, he just watches Disney movies too much. 

George smiles into his menu, agreeing shyly. “Teaching not paying the big bucks, then?” He laughs. The room feels too warm. Like the fires of UY Scuti, blazing and melting George with just a touch. It walks a thin line between too much and too little. But then George looks up at Clay, and Dream’s smiling at him like _that_ and suddenly it’s enough. 

“Sadly the teaching wage is that of a Victorian chimney sweep minus inflation.” The hanging lights reflect onto Clay’s eyes, the amber glow of the restaurant makes his whole frame seem seem so comforting. So alive and so homely. And George’s left the maybe-idiotic moth drawn in to Clay's smiles and warmth. Maybe it’s a trap, maybe Dream is the sun and George truly is the idiotic moth. But he can’t bring himself to care. It scares him.

By the time they’ve ordered and the food arrives, the pair have exhausted every subject under the sun. George knows Clay’s favourite colour, birthday. Everything from how he does his shopping the second Tuesday of every month out of some family superstition (that turned out to just be a financial decision), to the names of his pet's when he was a child. George’s sure he’s a moth now. He’s sure Clay's not the sun, no, but a glitterball - showing every side of George and decorating him with the brightest of silvers. 

By the time the meal’s over, Dream’s calling a taxi. “I’ll drive with you to your place and call my own from there,” He stops, looks over at George as if his eyes haven’t been placed on him the entire evening. “If erm - if that’s okay with you?”

George nods softly, stars appearing as Dream pulls out his mobile and calls for an Uber. They stand in silence while Clay types away. Part of George wishes they hadn’t had wine so Dream could’ve driven George home in his own car, but this is alright. It’s George and it’s Clay. It doesn’t matter how they get to a place, just that they’re somehow always there. Always one step ahead in a perfect balance. 

It takes a few minutes, which they spend debating the logistics of the _Zelda_ universe, but the car pulls up next to the restaurant and they both clamber in. The sky’s pitch black by now and, true to his forecaster, the full moon sits in the sky swaying between the clouds and the stars. It’s a wonderful sight, truly. Not as wonderful as Dream, however.

The drive isn’t long exactly, only 15 minutes or so. Clay’s smiling directly at George and listening intently to one of George’s childhood stories. He laughs at all the right moments and cringes when George tells a particularly grotesque detail and he’s perfect. Sitting in the back of a car, listening to George ramble about fuck all and making him feel like the universe means nothing when it’s just them. 

George loves what they’ve developed, the in between. The not so quite but not nothing. But he’d give everything for something more. Just the ability to reach over and touch Clay, to just wake up next to him in their bed and kiss him good morning. He’s sure Dream wants the same. Because he’s a moth and Dream's a glitterball. 

The car parks outside George’s apartment complex. Dream thanks the driver, hands her the money and walks George to his door. George’s sure the walk up the building’s staircase took longer than the drive here. But Dream's making jokes about the people dining in the restaurant with them, and George can barely walk up the stairs without nearly toppling over in laughter, and Clay's holding his hand. It’s just platonic. It’s small, miniscule in the grand scheme of things. But it means _something._ Something the two of them can’t even begin to explain. 

They stop outside George’s doorstep. The atmosphere changes then, George’s sure of it. It just feels pink. The hallway lights aren’t working, they aren’t lighting up the corridor like they’re supposed to. But Dream is. Dream's staring at George with a soft grin, and golden eyes and pink dusted cheeks and George's struggling not to fall over in amazement. How could such a peculiarly beautiful being just _exist._ And how could said being look at George. It’s mayhem, full and through.

“I, uh, I had fun tonight.” George whispers. The moment feels too precious to talk over. Clay stares at him with such a raw intensity that maybe George's knees should just buckle. Maybe George should just collapse. Clay bites his lip and looks down at George.

Never once does his smile leave his lips, not when George’s breath catches in his lungs, not when Dream gulps and not when he leans down. And then they’re kissing. And oh, God, the hallway lights aren’t bright but they are. They’re two stars in the middle of a galaxy and they still outshine the darkness. They’re not roses or plums, they're George and they’re Dream. They’re two best friends standing in the middle of a hallway, holding each other like they have nothing else and kissing each other. George becomes a lake and Clay becomes a garden and they’re drowning in each other whilst growing. 

Until they’re not. Clay stops abruptly and slowly pulls away. His eyes are wide, head shaking and his lips are quivering. George stands with brows furrowed, ready to ask. He never does. No, instead Clay speaks. Clay speaks in nothing but “I- oh, my God, I - I’m sorry I cant - w-we can’t.” He bows his head, pushes George off him gently and stares at him.

He stares at the man crafted by the hands of Gods, with stories built up like the library of Alexandria. He stares as the man that smiles like the universe is watching, and talks like honey and smells like lime stops. Stops in his tracks. And then he runs. Clay runs away from George. He leaves George standing alone in the middle of the hallway.

The hallway light needs to be fixed, it needs to stop leaving George in the dark. It needs to stop illuminating the intricate beauties of the man that leaves him and start lighting a clear path for the small boy that’s left.

It becomes clear to George in this moment. He’s not a moth, Clay's not a glitterball. George is Icarus and Dream’s the sun. He stares at the elevator, at the place where Clay was not too long ago. And George feels his wax wings dripping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! welcome welcome hsdjkhfjksd pls this chapter is so cool ugh in case any of yous dont know the story of Icarus is the boy who flew too close to the sun n shit its pretty cool very well known i highly recommend u check it out greek mythology is fucking minted as shit hfdsjk but yes yes hope u enjoyed the chapter, howre yous? not too bad i hope :D i hope u have an incredibly time period, i love u all so so much mwah :D


	10. Chapter 10

Moonlight seeps into the restaurant, coating the room in an elegant brightness. Tables and chairs seat people Dream will never talk to within his lifetime, more than likely. People with their own life stories and poems worth of memories that he'll never hear about. Clay doesn't think he cares very much though, not when George's sitting opposite him, holding the straw of his gin and lemonade and shining at every word Clay tells. It's a particular emotion he can't seem to name but words can't mean that much. 

Dream's telling a story and George's laughing and it's all so sweet. They're in their own world, their own universe where only they matter. People are staring at George's obnoxious laugh, and Dream’s equally as obnoxious grin and he lets them. He lets them see their adoration.

The waiter comes over with their menus, and leaves with George and Dream’s polite “Thank yous.” and a nod. Silence overcomes them as they search the menus. Clay looks up shyly, eyes just above the edge of the menu. George has his tongue stuck out as his eyes scan hurriedly. The amber light from overhead reflects gently onto him. He looks gorgeous. Like the words themselves. Perfect on a whole other level.

Eventually he looks up, his gaze meets Dream's and he blushes. He ducks his head and smiles gently. Clay stares in awe, his breath stuck in his throat. Then George speaks, it feels like he’s being tethered back into reality. “Erm, think I’m gonna play it safe and get the carbonara.” George nods. 

He scans the menu looking for the same food item, but comes across something different. A portion large enough for the pair and cheaper than two individually. It doesn’t have to be romantic. Sure, Clay loves Lady and The Tramp but that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy pasta with his definitely platonic friend! The thought arises in Dream’s mind like a bubble. He waits for it to pop but it just stays floating around until he opens his mouth.

“I was gonna get that too actually. It - it’s cheaper to get the sharing portion. If you’re okay with that and all.” Clay rambles. He takes a breath and braves a look at George. Where he expected a face full of disgust, stands a man smiling from ear to ear, with dusted cheeks and glimmering eyes.

George laughs gently. “Teaching not paying the big bucks then?” He jokes. Clay can tell it’s his way of coping with emotions but he let’s George have it. How can he not? How can he say no to George? 

Clay laughs back, shaking his head. “Sadly the teaching wage is that of a Victorian chimney sweep minus inflation.” George lets out a proper laugh this time. Not the one he uses when he doesn’t want to confront emotions, not a gentle, soft one. A slightly too loud, slightly too obnoxious laugh that leaves one too many eyes glued to their frames. Clay loves it.

It takes a good few minutes before the waiter arrives to take their order, but when he does George asks for one sharing portion of carbonara. Clay feels giddy - light and floating - and it’s wonderful. George looks like the oceans and the forests sitting in slow motion. He looks like the sun’s depictions of art, the stars poetry, a universal epiphany. And somehow he’s here, sitting in front of Dream, asking a waiter if he can share pasta with him. It’s ethereal, how something so small and meaningless could be so much.

Much to Dream’s dismay, they don’t end up snogging in the middle of the restaurant after accidentally trying to eat the same strand of spaghetti. It doesn’t matter though, because they’re still sitting opposite each other and smiling. Even with their eyes and mouths closed, they’re smiling. Thinking of the other and grinning. It makes Dream’s heart beat tenfold. He loves this.

The meal ends not too long after, Clay offers to pay and George accepts after little argument. And then they’re standing on the pavement outside. It’s cold, Clay notices George shivering slightly. He moves closer, pulls out his phone and starts typing. The sooner he gets George to his flat the sooner he can brew in his strange feelings. 

“I’ll drive with you to your place and call my own from there.” Dream says, eyes moving from his screen to face George. It dawns on him that maybe George doesn’t want Clay in his flat, maybe he didn’t enjoy the date - the very platonic date. “If, erm - if that’s okay with you.” He adds.

George nods softly. It takes Dream approximately two seconds to realise he can see particles in George's eyes. He’s utterly beautiful, pure and sweet. Dream’s sure his heart’s in a liquid state. His head’s not in any better of a position either. He swiftly pulls his phone back into his line of vision and calls an Uber.

It takes a good few minutes before the car pulls up and they clamber inside. Clay’s sure the drive will only take fifteen minutes or so, so he lets himself be brave. He lets his leg brush George’s. It’s small, miniscule in the grand scheme of things, but it’s nice. 

Dream spends the remainder of the car journey thinking about how he’s going to ask George on a date. A proper date. Romantic, not the in between they’ve been doing lately. He wonders that for the rest of the journey to George’s flat building.

They climb up the stairwell, making jokes about the strange people they remember seeing in the restaurant. Clay’s almost certain he’s making half the people up. Thinking about it, he’s not sure he noticed anyone else in the restaurant apart from George. It doesn’t matter either way though, because George’s laughing along, with bronze curls falling onto his face, and golden eyes becoming brighter and brighter the more they meet Dream's, and a grin growing wider than the Nile. Everything’s alright, everything’s enough.

When they reach the doorway of George’s flat, he lingers. George smiles absently. Clay notes how the hallway light isn’t on. Maybe it’s broken, he thinks. “I, uh, I had fun tonight.” George says. Dream stares at him. He stares at the rosy patch on George’s cheeks, and the freckles beneath his eyes, and the dim glow of the hallway somehow illuminating all of his best features so elegantly. 

Dream doesn’t know why he does this, in fact he’s more than certain he’s lost his shit and wasn’t thinking at all. But he leans in. He leans in and his lips meet George’s and, God, he’s never experienced something so light before. It’s so gentle, so perfect. The hallway light isn’t lighting up the corridor, but they are. They’re floating through the world together. Dream’s not sure he’s ever felt so wonderful before. He hopes George has.

George moves his head up to deepen the kiss, Clay leans in closer too. It’s so soft, so gentle and Dream loves it. Dream loves George. 

It takes a moment. A long, painful moment, before the words kick in. Before his thoughts become more than thoughts and plant a dandelion of stress in Clay's mind. This isn’t supposed to happen. He’s not supposed to feel this way about his best friend for God’s sake! 

His mind is buzzing too loudly. Suddenly this kiss, this beautiful, soft kiss, tastes like aluminium. It tastes metallic and bold and bad. And Clay has to get away. He stops George abruptly, pulls away and freaks out. He can’t do this, he can’t be here. He can’t handle George's confused, upset look. God, he can’t handle any of it. 

“I- oh, my God, I - I’m sorry I cant - w-we can’t.” He’s stuttering. He’s upsetting George and he’s making a fool of himself. He’s hurting the man made of honey and lime and good fuck it’s hurting him back. 

Clay bows his head and backs away. The look on George’s face is too much. It’s all too much. And so he runs. He runs towards the staircase and runs down the stairs and runs away. He realises if he calls an Uber he’ll have to sit outside the building - Georges building - for at least half an hour. The tube will only take him farther from home. It’s fine. It’s alright. He can walk, he wants to walk.

And he does. Clay walks back to his flat. Away from George. Away from the man carved by Phidias and made by the words of Sappho. Away from the man he realised he loved in the wrong moment. He just walks away.


	11. Chapter 11

As it turns out, Dream doesn't actually go home. It's ten at night, it's pissing with rain, but he doesn't head back to his flat. No, instead he walks over towards the only patch of grass Oxford Street has to offer - Cavendish Square gardens. The sky's as bright as the air pollution will allow it. The metal bench he rests on is colder than the actual surrounding area. It's okay. He deserves this.

Clay allows himself to look up at the constellations in the sky. The burning silvers and the scorching golds, such vibrant bursts of light. They’re not as bright as George though, not as pretty and not as miraculous. Dream sighs, not ignoring the mist his breath creates from the temperature drop. He wonders briefly if the stars he’s seeing are still alive. Maybe in five minutes time they’ll all have burst. He holds hope maybe the stars in George’s eyes haven’t.

His hands feel numb, his eyes feel like clouds and the world seems to be moving just a little bit too fast for him. He’s stuck in an emotional slow motion, but the rain's still pounding at his head at two hundred miles an hour. The wind’s still blowing him off the edge too swiftly. He’s stuck. 

A patch of flowers keeps his mind busy. The pretty colours, a drastic change from his dismal mood, serve him a bit of hope. Maybe he hasn’t fucked everything up. The closer Clay looks, however, the clearer it becomes that it’s a patch of roses. Bright red roses. Red like the dusting that would always brush upon George’s cheeks. Red like the specks in George’s eyes. Red like the massive warning sign yelling at him ‘you fucked up’ in all capitals. 

He can’t even look at flowers without thinking of him. He’s truly fucked.

Suddenly alone becomes a shit idea. Suddenly Dream doesn’t want to sit alone on this stupid park bench, holding his hair in his fists. He just wants George. God, why does he always have to fuck up so badly.

He can’t go home, no. Oliver will lecture him and, as much as he would love to hear how much he messed everything up again, he’d rather not. George won’t answer for obvious reasons. Maybe Ruth and Edna? Clay checks the time. Half past ten - they’ll be in bed by now. That leaves one person, his mum.

Dream brightens visibly by this. He hasn’t had enough time over the past month to contact his mum, too distracted by wooing George. At least he knows he succeeded in doing so. If only he wasn’t such a bloody wuss. He pulls out the phone from his pockets, struggling immensely to type due to the onset frostbite he didn’t consider before coming to the park. 

Eventually he finds his mum’s contact information, and presses call. 

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Bu- “Hello?” Dream sighs in relief. If none else, at least his mother still answers. He sucks in a breath, steadies himself as best he can and tries to speak.

“Hi, Mum.” He responds. Clay’s voice is shaking and his eyes are watering. His hands barely keep his phone pressed to his ear. He’s a mess, deep and truly. 

“Dream? Are you okay, honey?” 

The concern in his mum’s voice warms Clay slightly. Not enough to combat the cold he’s definitely going to come down with in the morning, but enough to make him feel safe for at least a moment. He doesn’t know how to answer his mum’s questions without balling, so he doesn’t try. “I think I messed up.” He whispers. 

His mum sighs from the other end of the line. “Oh, love.” She sighs, “D’you wanna talk about it?” Clay shakes his head. He knows she can’t see it but at least it brings some blood to his brain. It makes him feel less like a broken painting.

“No. No, thank you.”

Clay hears some shuffling from the end of the line and decides to rest his head against the bench. He’s fully aware of the rain, he’s fully aware of the cold metal, he’s fully aware he’s lying in a foetal position on a park bench in the middle of London. But then he hears a melody begin from his mum. A soft, gentle piano chord that sends him back to nine years old.

Back to when he ran to his mum crying because a boy he liked called him weird. Back to his mum's initial surprised face that grew more understanding by the minute. Back to young Clay crying on his mum’s shoulder as she played Clair de Lune until he felt happy again. Suddenly he’s there again. 

He sits in silence, the drumming from the rain and the quaver notes from the piano the only indication the world hasn’t gone completely mute. It’s nice to just sit here, experience life without experiencing it. It’s all so small but it’s enough. 

His mum plays until she hears shuffling from Clay's end. He sits up from the bench and repeats what he first told her. “Mum, I think I messed up.” This time he’s ready to talk about it. He’s ready to get scolded by someone other than his own conscience. He’s ready to find out how to fix this. 

There’s a pause, as Dream’s mum waits for him to explain. He can’t put this off any longer. That’s okay though, he thinks. “I- I think I’m in love.” Clay’s sure his mum’s confused so he continues. “I met this guy, uh, George? I think I told you about him a bit ago.” He starts, waiting for his mum's input. It never comes.

“Well, erm. We’ve been hanging out and shit for the past month and I - I don’t know. I asked him out for dinner and I think he thinks it’s platonic and then. . . he kisses me. Or - or I kiss him? And I freak the fuck out because holy Hell, this isn’t just me and-” Dream pauses to brush his hair away from his face, “- I panicked. Something about everything just makes sense, you know? And I freaked.

“I ran away from him, Mum. After realising it might not just be a petty crush. I just, I don’t know what to do.” It takes a lot out of Clay. He doesn’t want to be sitting here explaining his problems to his mum. He wants to be with George. He wants everything to be okay. 

The moon sits in the sky, mocking Dream for all he’s worth. Maybe if he tries hard enough, he can build himself a rocket ship and fly to the moon. Clay likes the sound of that. He likes the sound of living amongst the stars again. They can’t compare to George, no, but they can be a new kind of beauty. Bright and aflame but shining at all of Dream's jokes, and glimmering in the melancholy moonlight. It all sounds so nice.

There’s no answer on the other end of the call, this starts to worry Clay. He pulls his phone back from against his cheek and glances at the no battery symbol. Of bloody course. Dream exhales, and leans his back against the bench. 

The rose patch still stands in the corner of his vision. Even in the midst of such cruel weather they glow a deep ruby. Even after the rain hits their petals, they take no damage. Clay looks up at the stars, the one’s he saw a few minutes prior still shine brightly. They haven’t died - not in past Dream's timeline at least.

Even in the midst of the storm, in the midst of what could be their deaths, they glow bright. Just like the blush on George’s cheeks, just like the stars in his eyes. Maybe they haven’t died after all. Maybe Clay hasn’t killed them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! lads. welcome to the turning point it all goes downhill from here LMAOOO FHDSKJH but nah dw dw its all good ur all good hello how are yous? i hope ur all doing well! its so weird going back and changing shit but i hope yous like it none the less, everything will be explained dw im just not gonna have it be like hello mum hello son this is why ur upset hfdsjk u know?? second hand info sucks arse which is why i dont mind this chapter but it isnt one of my favourites lol fhdsjk anywhoooooooooooo howre yous? i hope you have an amazing time period! i love you all so so much mwah :D


	12. Chapter 12

After a while, staring at an empty staircase crowds George's mind more than it numbs it. The hallway light remains dim, the potted plants remain dead, and George remains stranded. It's insane, he concludes, that he feels stranded at his own flat. His own home is no longer a sanctuary but the place Clay left him. It's stupid that even after tens of minutes of staring at an empty staircase, he still has hope he'll come back. Maybe he's just too far gone to see reality.

His knuckles, George's sure, are tinted red with bite marks forming white floral patterns sporadically around. His body's wrecked, numb and hollow. Simply a trap for his soulless mind. He's not sure when he started crying, but his cheeks remain stained with tracks of dried tear tracks. His hairs far past the point of frizzy due to hands constantly making contact with his scalp. He's tired. 

Tired of being disposed of by people he trusts. It’s all too much, all too stupid and small but he’s tired of it. The punchline to the joke is that even though George’s left the sobbing mess by his supposed best friend, he’s finding every way possible to defend Clay. Every way to prove George was in the wrong, not someone who walked into his life with a bright smile and left with a broken man. That isn’t right, this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

Clay’s supposed to run through the stairwell, confess he messed up but he’s here now. Maybe say he forgot flowers. Yes, maybe the lack of flowers is the issue. Was George supposed to bring flowers? George gulps, rubs his face with his hands but stays in place. His vision stays locked on the staircase. It’s completely and mind numbingly stupid.

But any second now, Clay’s going to come running through the door. Any moment. And George’s preparing himself for it. He’s preparing a speech, and the different scenarios. He’s got it all planned out, everything from the way Dream will apologise to the way George will accept with courtesy. Everything but the scenario in which Clay doesn't come up. 

George doesn’t want to think of that scenario. He doesn’t want to imagine that this was all just a fuck up and he was reading into nothing and Clay’s a straight man with a wife and two kids and a suburban house in the Lake Districts and - George exhales. His head falls back and suddenly he’s staring at the light on the ceiling. The stupid light that made George believe Clay was bright and beautiful and all the things he really is.

The light flickers, never going lighter than dull. It’s too little, it’s not scintillating or shining brightly. It’s sitting there as if it has the right to be dark. As if it’s earned the right to sit brooding whilst George just lost the only friend he’s ever truly had. 

“This is your fucking fault.” George whispers to the light. It doesn’t acknowledge him with more than a flicker in return. It clicks for George that he’s standing in an empty hallway, talking to an inanimate object and waiting for the man who decided he isn’t good enough to come back. He’s losing it. Good fuck, he’s losing it. 

It takes ten more minutes (and one too many neighbours walking past with off stares) before George finally does go back inside. He’s not sure what the purpose is though, all he’ll do is stare at a space in the corner of his room and pretend he’s trying to get sleep. His mind’s too wired, it’s too messy and he’s not sure how to fix it. 

He no longer has a best friend, he no longer has someone to care for him, he no longer has Clay. It’s stupid, so stupid and co-dependent and maybe it’s a good thing Dream left. Maybe Dream leaving will help George see just how reliant on him he truly was. He doesn’t. He thinks about it, but he doesn’t let it get anywhere past that.

His flat is cold. His room is dark. His lights are off and George’s as monochrome as the four walls. He’s as grey and unshaded as his sofa, as his décor. The windows are open, and the flat is too cold. He’s too cold.

George breathes in and gulps. His fingers are twitching, he’s sure, but he’s too distracted to pay mind to that. His breaths are ragged but he doesn’t care. His mind is buzzing and that’s all he hears. It’s all he sees. It’s all he feels. His mind’s stabbing knives through his veins and he’s left to care for the scrape wounds. Only, he’s not sure how.

George’s made plenty of bad mistakes in the past. He’s done things that he’s not proud of, he’s said things he wishes he could take back. George has fucked up before. He knows what it’s like to wake up thinking everything’s pure bliss only to have that snatched from your grasp like it was never yours to begin with. 

He knows the pain and brooding only gets worse the more he focuses on it. And so he doesn't.

There are clouds in his mind and suns in his eyes and they’re killing him. The clouds are suffocating and the sun’s blinding him and George can’t take it. He just wants to forget about everything, forget about himself, for two minutes. He just wants to sleep, ball his eyes out like a little kid and sleep. 

George coughs, rolls his shoulders and walks over to the alcohol cabinet. He has self control, he can handle himself. But he needs this. He needs to be in a different state of mind. He needs to shut off his brain and forget today happened. Because it didn’t. George needs to believe that if not for only a moment.

This is okay, George convinces himself, it’ll all work out. He’s sure of it. For now, however, he just needs to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! ooooooooooooooooo george drinking dw dw no alcoholic arc hes just sad idk sorry lmao but hello hello welcome! how is everyone woo! ive decided i think it would be very funny if i just ended this fic with george waking up and being like ooooh and it was all a dream LMAO but jkjk i wouldn't do that to yous i grew up on emo trinity wattpad fanfiction i understand the pain fhdjksh anywhoooooooo i hope u all have a wonderful time period! i love u all so so much mwah :D 
> 
> ps. thank u so much for 100 reads btw :0 ik that isnt a lot but like . im a smaller writer and this has literally only been out for eight hours so THANK U hfsdjk but yes yes ur all very cool woooo!!


	13. Chapter 13

The ground feels like a sinkhole. A mouth, maybe. Dream's not too sure which metaphor to use exactly, not when he's sinking. Maybe the welcome mat turns into a sea. Maybe potted plants to the sides of the door suck all the oxygen out of him. Either way, he's drowning. He can't breathe. He can't see. He's sinking. 

Clay's not sure whether to knock or just walk in. It's his bloody flat for God's sake. He shouldn't feel like an intruder. But he's been gone for four nights, barely answered any of his flatmates texts with more than okay's and he's more than sure he's not going to be welcomed back in with a warm hug and cake. It's alright, though. He can do this. Oliver has been Clay's friend for the better part of a decade. He can talk to him.

He’s not sure why exactly, but his fist raises and knocks an undistinguishable pattern on the door. Maybe it’s his infantile way of chickening out. The corridor lights are too bright, the world is too dim and Clay’s too tired. He’s just tired. Exhausted.

Almost as soon as Clay’s hand makes contact with the door, it swings open. The familiar scent of home slaps him in the face. He deserves it. He’s sure of it. Oliver stands in the doorway. There are bags tattooed under his eyes, hair stapled onto his forehead by sweat. Clay doesn’t think he’s ever seen Oli look so distraught. 

“Oh, God.” 

Oliver’s shaking his head. Clay can make out scratch marks on his arms, a faint smell of sick in the apartment and a waver in Oli’s speech. Clay thinks he’s going to vomit. He’s been gone for five days. Five days and four nights. It’s not like Oliver isn’t aware Clay's been out. 

The doorway’s starting to feel like a trap. Clay wants to leave. He doesn’t. “I’m sorry.” He whispers. Oliver scoffs, drags his hand across his face and gulps. Clay’s fucked.

“You’re sorry, are you?” There’s so much bewilderment in his voice it startles Clay. “Sorry is when you accidentally break a vase, Clay. Not when you go off the grid for five fucking days. God, I-” Oliver steadies himself a breath. The lights aren’t on. It’s too dark, far too dark. Clay can barely see anything. He needs a light. “I thought something happened to you.” Oli whispers.

Dream steps forward. He has to fix this. He can’t lose another friend. Not now. Oli puts a hand up and shakes his head. “You can’t keep doing this. God, George’s been stuck in his flat the past few days in case you went to his. This isn’t one of your novels, Clay. This is real life. You fucked up too far.” Oli inhales, straightening his posture. “Take a shower. We’ll talk about this after.” Clay nods.

The shower feels cold. The insistent water droplets acting like knives to his back. Why did you run away? If he’s being honest with himself, he’s not too sure. All he knows is this shower feels like cigarettes and he’s sick of acting the ashtray. It’s too grey, he’s too tired.

He turns off the tap and wraps a towel around his waist. He creeks the bathroom door and steps out. The hallway feels dead. If it weren’t for the voice in one of the other rooms, Clay would’ve thought Oli ditched. 

Dream stays near the door, listening into the conversation he just barely catches. “Yeah, he - he’s alright . . . I’m so sorry for everything . . . Not sure, really. I’ll ask him questions soon. I’m worried, George. God, he looks like he’s been living off scraps . . . Oh, no need to but you’re more than welcome.” Oh. Oli’s speaking to George.

Clay feels his stomach churn. He doesn’t stop moving, no. He just walks away. He’s done that a lot recently.

Soon enough, a grey jumper dress is shoved over his frame, and he’s standing in his living room, waiting. Waiting for this to all be a bad dream. For this to just end. Why does he always run away? 

Oliver eventually marches into the living room, stoic in the face. Clay stands like a child. He hates this. He hates this more than he can conceive. He’s been running away for the past five days and the second he gets caught, the second it gets too hard, he gives up. 

“I think you need to start therapy again.” Oliver starts. Clay panics. He doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t need to. This was a slip up. A temporary slip up. He’s fine. He’s perfectly fine. Oliver keeps his voice steady. That doesn’t detract from the terrible state he’s in. 

“What?! N- no, I - I can’t go back, Oli. Please.” Dream’s begging. It’s pathetic, he thinks. He pretends he doesn't care, though. He can’t go back to therapy.

“Clay, for God’s sake! You disappeared for a week, left everyone else to have to find out themselves and for what? For play time?” Oli shakes his head, slumping further into the sofa. “This doesn’t have to be like last time. We can get you a different psychologist but this is serious. I can’t let you lose yourself again.”

The walls are too white. Too clean. The dull evening haze leaves them tinted blue. Oli’s talking, expressing how much Clay fucked up. How much he needs help. It’s all so melancholy and dramatic. This isn’t right. He just needs to know. “Did you tell him?” 

Oli stops his rant, in favour of staring at Clay in a questioning manner. Clay repeats himself louder. He doesn’t let his face show emotion. He can’t. “Did you tell him?”

Oliver exhales. His gaze stays locked on the ceiling. Clay wonders briefly if Oli can see galaxies on it. But then Oli’s posture falls, and a small part of his façade falls away, and he starts speaking. Oli’s vision drops to the ground, his voice drops to a murmur. It’s comical in some sick, twisted way. “I only told him the truth.” 

Clay stops dead in his tracks. “What did you tell him?”

Oli looks exactly how Clay did a mere hour ago. He’s a deer caught in headlights and Dream won’t stop driving. Maybe if he’s lucky enough, he’ll reach a cliff. “Last time.”

Two words. Two words that mean nothing to so many people. Two words that leave Clay light in the head. The room’s spinning. It’s too much. It’s too much. It’s too much. Clay can’t handle this. His legs turn to chopsticks. He can’t walk, he can’t stand, he can hardly breathe. 

Oliver’s gaze is to the ground. Clay doesn’t notice, he doesn’t care. He’s too busy thinking about how this situation got so fucked up. He’s too busy wondering if he’ll make it to the bathroom, or just vomit on the coffee table. He’s too busy thinking about the future he could’ve had with George.

And as if God wasn’t tormenting him enough, a quaint knock rings through the flat. Clay doesn’t want company. He doesn’t want to face what this could mean. He just wants to lie down. But the person on the other end of the door doesn’t knock again. They don’t leave. They open up the door and stare at Clay at awe. Because who the fuck else would be here right now other than the man that knows too much. Dream’s fucked.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! welcome welcome ive been listening to so much lemon demon but theyre So Good and for What??????? its acttulaly homophobia at this stage im convinces smh so sad hfjskdh BUT HELLO! how are u all? i hope ur doing well! so much shit goes down lmao but keep in mind . this is angst with a happy ending . ive got u ive got u fhdskj i hope u enjoyed the chapter either way! have an incredible time period, i love u all so so much mwah :D


	14. Chapter 14

George's been pacing his kitchen for the better part of an hour. Clay has no right to do this, none at all. Why in the ever-loving fuck is George helping him? Not only does Clay not think George's good enough, he completely leaves the second it gets too hard. He's done. Absolutely, one hundred percent done. 

Only, he isn't. George's mad. Seething, burning, rotting in anger. But good fuck he'll be six feet in a casket before he'll say he isn't worrying. Maybe this is punishment for something. Maybe it's a prank show that's only objective is to emotionally torment George. Maybe George needs to stop letting people into his life if it always ends up like this. 

Oliver’s yet to explain exactly what happened to George. All he knows is that Dream tends to run away for days on end whenever something reminds him of his past. George’s not too sure what happened, no, but he does know he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care because why should he? It’s not as if he genuinely cares about Clay - that would be ridiculous.

George’s phone starts buzzing from the kitchen counter. The constant vibration rings through the flat until George gives up on his abstinence towards answering and walks over towards the phone. As soon as George sees the caller ID, he loses his coolness to the situation. Oliver.

He breathes deeply before picking up the call. “Hello?”

“Hi, erm. Don’t freak out,” Oliver starts. Oh fuck. What if Clay died? What if he's sick? What if - “Clay’s home.” Oh.

“Oh, fuck. I - Is he okay? Please tell me he’s okay..”

“Yeah, he - he’s alright. I’m so sorry for dragging you into this.”

“Oh, no, really don’t worry about it. Do you know? What happened, I mean.” George's rambling. He’s not sure why, exactly, but he is. He just wants to know if Clay’s okay. That’s all that matters.

It’s laughable just how fast he switches from disliking Clay to loving him. George’s not sure he ever truly disliked Clay, though. He’s just annoyed. Maybe he does? George sighs, this whole fiasco is too much. He misses when it was just George and Dream and a cup of coffee. He misses when it was simple.

“Not sure, really. I’ll ask him questions soon. I’m worried, George. God, he looks like he’s been living off scraps.” This catches something in George. Clay’s back. Dream’s not healthy right now. George needs to see Dream.

“Shit, can I come over? I’m coming over.”

“Oh, no need to but you’re more than welcome.” Oli’s talking. George's not listening. No, instead George's searching anxiously for his keys.

“Thanks, be there in six.” George hangs up, finds his keys and runs out of his flat. He barely remembers to get his coat and lock his door. It doesn’t matter though. The hallway light hasn’t been fixed but it looks slightly brighter. Just a little bit.

George walks. He walks all the way from Oxford street to Regent street. He just wants to see Clay, make sure he’s okay. George’s sick of pretending not to care. He just wants this to all be over. He just wants the roads to stop glowing so bright, he wants Clay to stop running away and he wants himself to stop falling for him. It’s stupid. He’s stupid.

Shops and avenues shine brightly besides the pavements. It’s grey. So, so grey. Just cars and roads and one or two cyan or yellow signs. It’s so dull. George’s sure he’s not appreciating the true beauty of the street but he needs to get to Clay and Oli’s flat quickly. He needs to know what the fuck’s going on.

He won’t pressure Clay into telling him anything, no. George has his fair share of mental issues he wouldn’t want to share with a bloke he met just over a month ago. He knows where his place is. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to know. He wants to have the slightest clue what’s happening. 

The flat building comes into George’s horizon and he quickens his pace. He treads on dark green grass, George’s almost certain is dead. It’s a nice change from the cemented pavements, however. For the first in a while, he sees flowers. Blooming roses and petunias and it feels like midsummer. It feels nice.

Clay’s flat doesn’t have a buzzer, and so he lets himself up. He waits in the elevator, feeling his body rise with the metal contraption. George’s not quite sure why him and Dream always take the stairs, now that he thinks about it. George sighs, maybe he just wanted to spend more time with Clay. He wouldn’t put it past himself.

The elevator dings and George steps out. His legs drag him to the flat number Oliver texted to him the other day. It takes him a minute or so, but he gets to it. And there he stands. Opposite mahogany and aluminium, eyes connecting to the peephole. Clay's corridor lights work. They light up George’s surroundings and leave him blinded. They leave George confused. Conflicted.

With a breath, George knocks on the door. He knows it’s rude, but after a minute of no response, he walks in. In his defence, he didn’t realise the door would be unlocked. But then he’s in Clay’s flat .He’s standing in the entrance to the flat of the man who left him, the man who went off the grid for a week. George wants to leave. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he walks further into the building until both, who he assumes to be, Oliver and Clay are in sight. Oliver, who looks like a train hit him tenfold. Clay who looks no different. George blinks. This can’t be real. He can’t be experiencing this.

The lights are off, the room smells like stale coffee, the wall’s are tainted blue and George’s standing in the middle of it like he doesn’t belong. He doesn’t. His eyes move towards Clay's and oh, God, George needs help. Never in his life has someone looked like poetry and wine and so fucking punchable. George doesn’t know whether or not he dislikes Clay. He’s not sure whether his wings have already melted or if they’re waiting until he gets just too close to the water. All George knows, is he’s _pissed._


	15. Chapter 15

Ever since Clay was a little child, he's been intrigued by wildlife - deer in particular. He owes it mostly to the traumatic grief Bambi put him through at the age of five, but something about the species left Clay in awe. He remembers when he was younger, and he and his family would go down south to London every Summer, Clay would force his mum to stop the car every two seconds in fear of hitting a deer. That was around the time his older sister introduced Clay to the phrase 'a deer caught in the headlights'.

Clay never truly understood what that phrase means. As an English professor, and a man who's lived on this Earth for more than five years, he's well aware of the dictionary definition of it. The classic, being so frightened or scared you cannot move. Clay knows what it means on text. But like a little boy reading stories of war, that was always all it was. Stories. 

Clay grew out of his wildlife phase when he started university. He never did think of deer as fascinating again. He never wondered what that phrase meant since. Not until right now.

George stands across the room, revving his engine. Clay’s standing centre on, anticipating his demise. He feels childish. Childish because he’s using stupid metaphors to express his useless feelings. Childish because he’s drowning in solid wood. Childish because he’s staring directly at the man he left, and still can’t deny he loves him. 

George doesn’t drive Clay off a cliff, no. He tears his gaze away from him and onto Oli. “Could I get some tea, please?” George asks. Clay notes how his voice doesn’t quaver.

Oliver nods and disappears off into the kitchen. And then there were two. George’s not making eye contact. He refuses. Clay’s trying not to vomit. A sick, sick part in the back of his mind is reminding him over and over again that he deserves this. That he ran off and he needs to accept the consequences. 

George’s voice rings gently throughout the room. It’s quiet. It’s nice. “Where did you go?” 

It’s a simple question, really. Clay’s not too sure why he doesn’t want to answer. He does, though. He at least owes George that. “I, erm, stayed on a bench-” He shrugs. 

“You stayed on a bench?! Oh, God, Clay -” George interrupts.

Clay’s quick to cut him off with a further explanation. “I- kinda? On the night we - on the first night I walked to the square gardens but after that I went to a McDonalds, charged my phone and called my sister. She, erm, she let me stay at hers for the week.” Clay explains. It dawns on him just how stupid this whole thing is. Just how much he’s fucked up.

George nods, though. Clay’s not too sure why, but at least it gives him a weak excuse to look at George. “How’s about work?”

Clay breathes out a laugh. He’s sick of this. Why are they talking about work? Why can’t they talk about Minecraft or The X-Files or anything else. He knows why. He hates it. “Summer holidays started two weeks ago, I, erm, I have the month off.”

It all feels still. Completely and utterly still. No sounds emerge apart from the kettle boiling from the other room and the uneven vs even breathing courtesy of the two friends. Or are they still friends? Clay’s uncertain.

“You’re a bloody idiot, you know that?” It’s Clay’s turn to nod. “You disappear for five fucking days without so much as a call only to come back and tell me you were practically homeless for a while. And that’s not even beginning to mention what happened between us.” George’s yelling. Clay didn’t learn much from his academy days, but he does seem to recall his music teacher calling this a crescendo. Only it doesn’t stop getting louder. George’s words grow more and more deafening until they ring in Clay’s ears like a self deprecating bell.

“I wasn’t homeless.” Clay whispers. It’s a shitty rebuttal but this is too much. He can’t focus on anything. It’s too loud. It’s too fucking loud. He can barely register George’s scoff. No, no, no, he can’t do this. He doesn’t want to be here.

“Oh, thank heavens! You weren’t actually homeless! Guess my work here is done then. All forgiven, all forgotten. Guess we can just move along from what happened.” It’s sarcastic. It drips from George’s mouth like honey. Clay hates that he draws that comparison. It’s not how George’s usually honey - sweet and slick - no. This is sticky, this is sickly, this is disgusting. Clay thinks it’s too much. But then George starts talking again. “You need therapy, Clay.” 

Something about those words hit something in Dream. He doesn’t need therapy. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine. The defensive barriers rise around him. He can’t handle another person he cares about forcing him to go back to that place. His defensive barriers are no longer walls that protect Clay, though, they’re weapons to attack George. He’s fucked. 

“Oh, God, since you wanna talk about it so bloody much, what happened, George? Tell me - enlighten me 'cause it seems an awful lot like fuck all!” He’s lying. “God, in case you’re too fucking dense to see it, it meant nothing.” He’s lying. “ You mean nothing.” He’s lying. He’s lying to the man he loves. That isn’t enough anymore though. It doesn’t matter that this is a defence technique, or that Clay doesn’t mean the words. He’s speaking, and George’s hurting. 

George pales. Clay’s certain he’s never seen someone look so sick. So sick and so pale and so dead. Clay feels all those things. He’s experiencing all these things but it doesn’t matter. Nothing will ever justify what he’s saying. 

His voice is shaking, just like his legs. But he speaks. George interrupts Clay and speaks. “You, Clay , are dead to me.” George looks broken. He sounds broken. All he is, is a record that got scratched to shreds by a selfish idiot who didn’t want to confront his feelings. All he is, is falling. Falling out the door and into the afterlife. Clay’s not sure where George goes, actually. Just that the door’s closed one minute and open the next and he’s not here. 

Clay’s left to stand. He’s left to detach from himself and float away. He’s sure he’s sobbing. He’s sure he fell to the ground at some point or another. That doesn’t fucking matter though. None of it does.

Oliver walks in, finally, two cups of tea in hand. He takes himself a small second to scan the room until asking. “Where’d George go?” Clay’s porcelain. He’s fine China that hasn’t been looked at in centuries. Only the minute someone does, the minute he’s asked about the man who looked at him, he cracks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! woooooooo very spooky ikik what will happen who knows all i know is pain smiley face thumbs up emoji fhdjksh anywhoooooooo welcome welcome yous are entering the danger zone lots of angst lies ahead lmao wish me luck editing the next few chapters though im so tried hhhhhhhhh fhjsdhk but yes yes hope u enjoyed!! pls feel free to comment im very lonely hfks i hope you all have a wonderful time period i love u all so so much mwah :D


	16. Chapter 16

The lights are dim. Dull and cruel, serving no possible sense of relief. George's almost glad they're broken. He fears any exposure to something that isn't monotone will result in more than mind-numbing pain, more than hollow breathes and absent tapping - numbness. He's not sure he can handle that. He can hardly hold on as it is.

He's tired of it all. He ordered pizza two hours and it still hasn't arrived. It isn't here. George put an album on shuffle an hour ago and it's stopped playing. He just wants his distractions to do their job. Not be an hour late. Not stop when there's nothing left. He hates it all. So, so much.

The constant ticking of the clock on his bedside table is too loud. George’s trying to think. He’s trying to ignore everything and he can’t when that stupid fucking clock makes him feel noticed, makes him feel heard only to leave him . Maybe it isn’t the clock that’s making George feel like this. He doesn’t care, though. He’d rather walk the streets of Hell barefoot than mention his name.

He is dead to George. George won’t mourn his death, he’ll use this as a history lesson. A broken, shitty history lesson that not every guy who says he’s beautiful believes it. Why would they? Why does George even expect people to believe it when it’s not true. When he doesn’t see stars in his eyes, only asteroids. He doesn’t see mirth in his grin, he sees complacency. He doesn’t see a face crafted by Phidias and the Gods, he sees dripping wax and swarms of wasps. 

The only God that ever cared about him was Aristaeus. Because George’s mind is a hive and Aristaeus needs a place to store his bees. George agreed on a broken bet and the dealer left him with nothing but honey for brains and Chapstick love. That’s all it ever is. Chapstick.

George’s sick of the walls and their sickly blue. The darkest shade on the softest opacity, painting rushed brush strokes of moonlight onto George’s bedroom walls. It’s not art, it’s not poetry. It’s lime. It’s bitter. Too, too, bitter. Everything's ‘too’. George can’t escape it.

After another hour, the pizza still doesn’t arrive. George’s given up on it. If others can give up on him, why can’t he do it too for a change. George prepares himself for another evening of moping. Another night of mindless resting. Maybe he’ll try to sleep, he knows he’ll fail. But his phone chimes and he’s sick of not being. He’s sick of barely being alive.

The sheets crumple in the dark, silent flat. George winces as his body turns to the side. He doesn't remember charging his phone. He’s hardly touched it since that night, though. He can hardly bring himself to care. But there, written in black and grey, lies a message from his old friend. Someone he seems to have forgotten exists. There, written in black and grey, lies a message from his first crush. 

“ Hiya, in town for the week. Wanna meet up for tea? xx - Jamie”

George’s left breathless. He can’t recall the last time he saw Jamie. Maybe a year ago? Two? After George’s bookshop started to pick up, he lost touch with most people from his childhood. Jamie, himself, moved to Durham a few years back too. It’s hard to keep up with people, George reminds himself. He never ran away. He simply walked towards a different objective at a brisk pace.

There’s no reason why George should say no. No reason why he could, either way. Plus, he hasn’t seen Jamie in a long, long while. He who George will not mention can’t act as a barrier between George's social life any longer. Not that there was much to begin with, really. It’s petty, completely and utterly childish, but he blames him. George fully blames him.

And so he texts Jamie back. In spite of him or not, George’s not too sure, if he’s being honest. It doesn’t matter, though. None of it does. It’s just dinner between two friends. George doesn’t know why he’s trying so hard to make it sound platonic. For now he’ll assume it’s to keep his mind occupied.

His bedroom walls are still tinted blue, but at least George can tolerate it now. Well, maybe he can’t. He can still convince himself he can. He’s always been quite persuasive that way. 

He and Jamie send back texts until they’re clear when and where they’re going. Apparently, a small establishment just in Marylebone. Nothing big, nothing fancy. Nothing like the restaurant with him . It doesn’t matter though, nope. He doesn’t matter to George anymore. He can’t.

George does try a bit. He doesn’t wear too much black - even opting for a burgundy turtleneck as opposed to his somewhat concerningly impressive hoard of monochromatic jumpers. George needs to feel pretty. He needs to be needed. His bathroom is covered in eyeshadow residue and eyeliner markings. It’s perfect. George needs this. So he puts on makeup.

He puts on a bit more than he did previously, but he’s not thinking about that. He’s definitely not thinking about he who shall not be named, showing up at George's doorstep in a black button-up and sunflowers. Why would he? Nope, his focus is fully on the dark red shade of eyeshadow George chooses, and the steadiness of the winged eyeliner and the heavy blush. He’s not doing this to feel pretty, he’s doing this so others will think he’s pretty. He hates it all.

A loud knock makes itself present from George's door. It’s startling, but George doesn’t mind much. He shuffles absently at the door, prolonging the inevitable that is facing Jamie. Why are you making such a big deal over this? George questions. He just wants to be normal. With a breath in, George opens the door. 

There Jamie stands, a perfect blond quiff atop his head, a light blush on his cheeks from the nippy weather, and a slowly fading grin. “What’s on your face?” He asks. George swallows, his hands finding their way to his hair and messing it up. Of course Jamie wouldn’t like it. Of course he’s an idiot. Maybe he could just run back inside and wipe it off. 

“Erm, not much, rea- I, I’m sorry I just got bored and wanted to fiddle around a bit and I found some makeup and -” It’s all lies. George wanted to do this. He wanted to wear makeup to look good. He doesn’t. He really, really doesn’t.

Jamie coughs awkwardly. “Oh, yeah, erm, don’t - don’t worry about. . . it. ” It’s not assuring. George just wants to go to the restaurant. He’s being stupid. He’s fucking up.

“It’s no worries, really! I can go and wipe it off, sorry -” 

“No, no. We’re late anyways, probably shouldn’t spend so much time dolling yourself up, ey?” George hates himself. He wants to correct Jamie. He wants to express that no matter what, Jamie still would’ve arrived at George's flat at the exact same time. He doesn't. He stays quiet.

Their silence doesn’t change as they enter the underground. It’s not comfortable. It’s about as comfortable as silence can get between two parties who haven’t seen each other in years. It’s okay though. It needs to be okay.

The restaurant Jamie chose is a burger place. George smiles for the first time all day at this. “It’s been ages since I’ve had a burger.” Jamie smiles back at George. It’s not exactly dazzling, George doesn’t feel like his stomachs on a ship and his hearts in the ocean. It’s just . . . okay. George can handle okay. He doesn’t mind okay.

Almost as soon as their arses hit the seating, George’s eyes are to the menu. He’s thinking about maybe getting a chicken burger - simple and plain. There is no moonlight seeping through the windows. There’s no ease in conversation. There’s no connection. But George doesn’t mind too much. Connections are made to break, at least here it’s safe. It’s enough.

The silence isn’t a big positive, however. Eventually it starts to strangle George. “I think I might get a chicken burger. You?” He comments. It’s not anything if he’s being completely honest, but their conversation needs to be prompted by something - even if it’s talk of a chicken burger.

“Oh, cool.” It’s disinterested. It’s mocking. “I’m, erm, I’m a vegetarian actually.” George wants to slap himself. Of bloody course he’s a vegetarian. “I’ll probably just order the fritter burger.” That’s all that’s said until the waitress comes. 

The restaurant itself is quite lovely. A huge blackboard spreads across one of the walls. Orange lights pour down from the ceilings and rest like ice. A distant radio channel plays throughout, George’s not too keen on the song choices. He comments on it. “Couldn’t have gotten a better DJ, huh?” He laughs. Jamie shrugs.

“Eh, not as bad as those bands you listened to in uni. What was that one called again -” Jamie snaps his fingers, thinking. It’s a bit of a pet peeve of Clay’s but it doesn’t matter that much. “- The video game crap?” George sighs. His eyes droop slightly. He’s not exactly the world's biggest music fan, but he absolutely bloody hates when people make fun of his taste in music. He’s a hypocrite, yes, but he admits it. 

“Soundtracks?” George offers politely. 

“Oh, yeah! That’s it. Flaming pile of shit, honestly.” George hates it. He hates how Jamie’s ripping off something he genuinely likes, all because he made a shitty joke about the radio. He hates how he and Jamie are nothing alike. He hates Jamie’s perfect blond quiff. He hates it all. But he needs this. 

George doesn’t answer, only offers Jamie a forced chuckle. It’s alright though. The food arrives in no time and George thanks the waitress politely. Jamie doesn’t offer her so much as a nod of acknowledgement. George hates it. 

Soon they’ve finished eating, however, and they walk towards the underground. George offers a polite “thank you” to Jamie, to which he gets a tight nod as an answer. It’s stupid. Totally and significantly stupid. But George accepts when Jamie offers to walk him back to his flat. He’s still not sure whether he did so out of common courtesy or not. 

It takes a while, but soon they’re piled in the elevator, making nothing but small talk about the date. It’s nice enough, George thinks. It’s not fireworks, it’s not world-shatteringly beautiful, but it’s enough. Clay doesn’t need world shattering right now. It’s not worth all the hype. 

The hallway light hasn’t been fixed yet. George wonders for a long moment if it ever will be. Jamie’s not too far behind, completely silent apart from the brief odd one or two commentaries on the corridor. George doesn’t mind too much. Jamie’s eyes meet the light. It’s not exactly something most people ignore, but it gets annoying to hear how much a light needs to be changed by someone who will never experience it’s dullness again. 

Jamie talks, though. “Light's broken?” It’s two words. Not exactly ground breaking. But it scratches under the surface of George’s skin and creates a shady motel. George nods him off. What can he really say?

“I had a nice night.” That’s what he can say apparently. It’s not exactly a lie. Jamie’s a good bloke. He’s not sculpted by history's finest, but he’s alright. He doesn’t have stars in his eyes, but he has flecks of green. He’s alright, and that’s all George can ask of him. 

Jamie decides to be bold, however, and leans in to kiss George. He accepts mildly. The light in the hallway’s still dark, and so are they. They’re not mirror balls, they’re not moths or suns or Greek mythology. They’re not perfect, they’re human. It’s okay. It’s all okay. Jamie uses a bit too much tongue, George’s a bit too soft. But it’s okay.

The world doesn’t stop spinning, the lights don’t grow any brighter and they don’t taste like gold and honey. It doesn’t matter to George, though. None of it matters at all. Because at least Jamie stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! ooooooooooooooooooooooooo drama wow so scary hkjshdf pls hello i got three hours of sleep last night i am Exhausted so there are prolly a shit ton of mistakes im so so sorry bout those lol im trying to get what ive got of the book so far out (so like ,, 26 chapters if im not mistaken?) it is still an in progress fic but its cool i think im trying to use it to balance out whats morally correct? do two rights make a wrong? etc etc. very cool very fun fhsdjk anywho hope u enjoyed :D i hope u have an incredible time period i love u all so so much mwah :D


	17. Chapter 17

The world's a dream. A hazy, confusing dream that Clay's simply a background character to. The world's in a bronze haze, coated in gold and copper, and Clay still can't get over his silver mind. He's seen diamonds. He's experienced first hand just how his diamond shines and glimmers. Only now, he doesn't have a diamond. Clay wonders if you can get over seeing such a wonder for the first time. He doesn't think so.

His bed hasn't been made in a good week or two. That's definitely due to the fact he hasn't actually properly left his bed in a good week or two, apart from for the occasional bathroom breaks or the one shower he had on. . . at some point. Maybe that's why life feels like a dream. A horrible, hazy, holographic dream that Clay has no part in. It doesn't seem too wrong to presume that. 

Oliver hasn’t been much help in getting Clay up. He’s tried, good Lord, he’s tried. But not even someone made to be there for Dream can be there for him. He convinces himself the only person that can help right now is George. Not because George’s comforting and lovely and, well, _George._ But because then maybe Clay can apologise, explain everything. Make it all okay again. He would give everything to make this one thing okay again.

The clouds loom through into the flat, Clay’s sure he can taste mist through closed windows. Dark blue clouds over a silver moon, tracing the outlines of his figure with a single cold finger. A shudder rings across Clay’s stone dead body. The movement almost leaves him in physical pain. It leaves a mocking reminder of just how tired he is. Just how stupid and deceitful and wrong he is. 

The only sound he’s heard in the past few weeks, apart from Oli’s bickering, are cars driving down below. Occasionally he’ll catch a passing conversation or two. Last week a couple decided to profess their undying love right outside his open window. Clay’s never felt so sick before that moment, an emotional filth in himself translating into the physical plane enough for him to get up and shower. 

It’s shit. It’s all so shit. Dream can only bloody hope George isn’t a scratched record like he is. For all he knows George's going out every night with a different bloke, sharing every golden smile he used to give Clay to people he will never know, and never get to forget. He’s not jealous. He has no right to be. If that’s what makes George happy, he has nothing but pride and happiness for him. Even if it means spending three more weeks debating getting up or not. All that matters is George’s happiness. All that matters is George.

Clay skids between the thin line that is life and death. He sees his body from his soul above and all he can do is laugh at how melodramatic this all is. He fucked up, he’s accepting the consequences. He’s not staying in an old haunted mansion across the causeways, he’s not a soul-selling man with far too much homoerotic undertones wanting to stay pretty. He’s Clay. Not anything more, most likely much less. And he treats it all with such melancholy. It’s a mess. Truly it’s a mess.

The evening gets colder, albeit only being six at night, if Clay's counted the ticking's of his clock correctly. He wants nothing more than to go out and get a blanket, but if he goes out for a luxury is he really learning from his mistakes? Is he really sorry? He just wants it all to be over. He wants to text George, ask him on a date - a proper date this time, one he deserves - and bathe in his gold. George's the only diamond Dream’s ever known and the only diamond he's ever broken. He hates it, he hates it so, so much. 

Clay stares up at his ceiling. The popcorn pattern helps him imagine stars. He creates new galaxies, new worlds and new planets. World’s where it’s just him and George. World’s where Dream can’t fuck up. World’s where he isn’t scared. It works for a while, it’s enough for a bit. Until a knock sounds on Dream’s door. 

It isn’t unusual for Oli to pound down the poor slab of oak, especially over the past few weeks. But this time it sounds confident. It sounds assured. Dream grunts in acknowledgement, accepting the dull fate of loneliness he’s created will be disrupted. Oliver marches into the room and positions himself near the front of Clay’s bed. The hallway light shoves its way into the poor man’s room, blinding him temporarily as a mumble of absolute fuck all pours from his mouth in protest. 

Oliver isn’t here for chit chat. He isn’t here for Clay to have a moan about how light sensitive he’s become. Oliver’s here for a reason and Clay's all too aware of that. It takes all of the power he has, but he sits up and faces Oli. Despite the concerningly loud cracks his back makes and the onset migraine building its stupid little way into Clay’s head, he offers a smile. A small, polite smile that he hopes expresses he’s sorry. It doesn’t, he knows. If anything it just makes him look like a self righteous prick.

“I’m done babying you, Clay. I’m done treating you like the victim.” Oliver’s words confuse Dream. Time and time again over the past few weeks Oli’s burst in here with the same spiel. Every time it doesn’t work. “I don’t want to hear protests, you can’t get out of this - I’m making sure of it.”

Dream sits, confusion spreading across his face like a flood. A boundless, powerfully obnoxious flood. Oliver isn’t willing to elaborate, though. And so, for the first time in weeks, with a painfully scratching voice, Clay simply asks “What?”

Oliver blinks a bit too hard at hearing Clay’s voice. It’s been a long time since he’s heard it. Far too long. It’s enough of a surprise that he continues on his rant. “You’re going to therapy.” Dream’s heart stops. His pulse quickens. The room darkens. It’s not a dream anymore, it’s reality. And it’s cold, and it’s hard, and it tastes like metal and lime. “Don’t argue, okay? You’re not getting out of this. I’ve spoken to - I called George.” It’s too much. “He wasn’t exactly excited to help, but he gave me the number of his therapist.” It’s surreal. “You’re going tomorrow.” The room’s too hot, the world's too heavy and he can’t take it. Through his bleeding vision and ringing ears, he registers one thing. He vomits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! woowoowoo welcome welcome to the therapy arc that i have yet to fully flesh out hfdsjkh btw btw theres a whole redemption arc n shit planned my goal isnt to be like oh no theyre both rlly toxic to eachother so sad oh well wedding time hfjksdh im wanting it to be like right now were toxic for eachother, but we can work through this and once we better ourselves as individuals, we can work towards bettering ourselves as a pair which is quite nice i think hfsdjk fun fact originally this was supposed to be all fluff no angst LMAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO look at where that lead us so sad hfjksdh anywho!! hope u enjoyed the chapter !! have a wonderful time period i love u all so so much mwah :D


	18. Chapter 18

As it turns out, Jamie's concept of 'one week' happens to be three. George's not complaining though, no. He enjoys the company - he thinks. In all honesty, he's not too sure. On certain days, Jamie is an angel incarnate. A golden being with roses for eyes and tulips for a tongue. On most, he's the vulgar opposite.

George hates how he lets him stay, but it's alright. It doesn't matter because he's happy. Probably. Maybe? Okay, he's happier than he would be if he were alone. If not the reason George chucks out his makeup collection, or the reason he stops using flowery words, Jamie is a filler. He's someone that's just . . . there. George can't ask for much more right now. 

A whimper emits from next to him. _Jamie_. For once, George’s awake early enough to acknowledge the other man’s sleeping form. It’s not exactly special. Maybe the novels build it up too much, but he’s just the same. Albeit maybe more unconscious. He’s no different. He’s not special.

George flops his head against his pillow with a loud rebuttal sound. He winces slightly, risking a look at Jamie. He’s still asleep, fast asleep. He’s lucky. A small breath of relief escapes George. Everything feels still. A gentle tension flourishing its copper roses. It’s nice, but metallic. It tastes too much like blood to be comforting. It looks too much like beauty to not be.

His eyes roll over to his alarm clock. Over the past three weeks George’s gone back to work. Quite willingly, though he’ll be damned before he admits it’s mostly just a scapegoat out of his new boyfriend. His eyes strain but barely make out the numbers ‘07:50’. An unintentional groan leaves George's mouth. He’ll have to get up now if he doesn’t want to be late.

It takes a good few moments before his and Jamie’s limbs are fully untangled. A good few excruciatingly painful moments, spent with George whipping out every technique he’s ever learned from _James Bond_ and franchises alike. Eventually, however, he escapes the web of limbs and sits at his side of the bed.

He hates waking up next to Jamie. He hates it so, so much. But he needs this. He needs somebody in his life who won’t fall off the edge of an endless cliff the moment something mildly inconveniences them. George needs someone in his life other than himself. It’s stupid, it’s co-dependant, but it’s necessary. He can’t be alone. 

That’s why he’s sat on the edge of his bed, with his head in his hands, losing track of what’s motion and what’s sound. He can’t tell anymore. The rooms blurring, so is he. He’s being ripped apart and painted onto the walls like moonlight, and the sick part of it is, George wonders whether Jamie notices, whether he cares. He doesn’t. He hardly bats an eye. 

The tables spin and the bedsheets swirl as George stands. If he can just get through the motions, he can get through the day. His mind’s ablaze as he opens his dresser and pulls on the first set of clothing items he finds. It’s not exactly _Starry Night_ but it’s enough that he can seem functional. It’s enough.

George’s first thought whenever he gets panicky is to put on makeup. It’s calming, it’s exhilarating, it’s the one piece of beauty he carries with himself like a locket. His mind chases after his body as it runs towards the bathroom. It’s trying so hard to remind the body there’s nothing. George’s body doesn’t listen, it runs. It doesn’t run away. It runs towards. Only, there is no _towards_.

The bathroom door creaks open, George’s sure he’s forgetting something. His mind knows. His body doesn’t care. It doesn’t care whilst he opens up cabinet after cabinet and only leaves with empty hands and sour lime for a mouth. Of course. Of bloody course he forgot. Jamie made him chuck it all out. Everything. 

Tears form in George’s eyes. He shouldn’t be crying. The unreasonable side of his brain chants over and over and over for George to stop being such a cry baby. To stop crying. That Jamie was right to throw everything away. George falls for that side like Romeo did Juliet. George wonders who’ll fake their death first, himself or his mind. It terrifies him how unsure he is.

It takes a while, a long, painful while, but eventually he’s out of the house. The streets of Soho calm George exceptionally well, to the point he’s no longer a walking corpse. There’s no longer a casket at the morgue etched in his name, just a tired man who hasn’t eaten breakfast yet. He likes pretending that’s all he is. His existentialism doesn’t, but he’s not his existentialism. He’s George. 

George’s bookshop creeps closer and closer into his vision, until his glass eyes can make out the sign, written in deep black. The bell chimes a high pitched ring as he opens the door and enters his workplace. He misses when this wasn’t a scapegoat from people he’s supposed to love. It’s just dull now. Everything’s dull. Regardless, George sucks in a breath and flips the sign to ‘open’. 

The rest of the day’s slow. A calm haze flies lowly throughout the shop like a soothing mist. Bells chime one after the other as people come and go. Due to the holidays coming to an end, business truly has been flourishing for George. It’s moments like these, when the shop’s filled with people experiencing their own life stories, where George doesn’t care for his mother’s words. This place is George’s. It’s his home, it’s his livelihood, it’s his world. He’s seen galaxies and he’s seen gold but nothing will ever compare to this bookshop. _He_ might’ve been honey and lime, but this place George’s created is everything else. 

The shop’s front door opens once more. George looks up, preparing his welcome speech when his words get caught. They get trapped like flies to a web and lime to honey and George to shitty situations. There, at the doorway, coated in bronze and silver, stands Oliver. George clenches his jaw slightly, and coughs. 

Oliver’s gaze darts up from the _back to school sales_ sign and lands directly on George. He offers no more than a small smile before disappearing off into one of the nearby shelves. George’s gut clenches. What is Oliver doing here?! If _he_ wanted to see George, he should’ve sent a text - not his flatmate to George's _place of fucking work._ This can’t be real. No, it mustn’t be.

Oliver arrives at the desk, George ignores every part of him but his face. Oli’s nonchalant, bored face. George scoffs. He needs _him_ to get the memo. George can’t just have people like that back in his life without reason to. George can’t have people in his life that don’t care about him. He can’t operate with that. “Did he send you?” He asks. It’s quiet. So, so quiet. Oli hears him though.

He offers nothing but a small laugh. “Ah, don’t flatter yourself.” An abrupt bang makes itself presence as Oliver puts a collection of books onto the desk. “Back to school sale.” He clarifies. George mouths an ‘oh’ shape. Oliver continues. “Sorry if this is like . . . weird? You’re just the only shop that sells my entire curriculum.” 

George smiles shortly and nods. He just needs to scan the bloke’s books and get back to work. He can do this. He can do this. “Your total’s £280.99. Have a good day.” Oliver nods and prepares himself to leave.

Something stops him though, something George’s not quite sure he appreciates. Oli turns around and looks at George. For once, he doesn’t come face to face with indifference. Something about Oliver’s whole figure feels concerned. George decides to listen. “Erm, look. I don’t know exactly how to say this but I, uh -” He pauses, collects himself, “- When Clay was gone those days you - you mentioned a therapist you were seeing?”

There it is. The name George’s been avoiding for the past three weeks. He almost feels physically sick. Part of him worries even saying the name aloud will stain his one comfort - the shop - in pain. It doesn’t, he thinks. He hopes. “Uhm, yeah.” George hasn’t gone to therapy in the past few weeks. He doesn’t want to face his issues. Oli knows this. George told him weeks ago. Why is he coming to him?

“Cool, so, is there any chance you could give me their number? Clay kind of needs it and I wanna make sure he’s with someone I _know_ isn’t like last - you know what I’m gonna stop talking.” Oli’s rambling. George can’t exactly deny someone therapy. It stings like a wrench to his gut, but he nods. He doesn’t want to help. Clay’s dead to him. But Clay needs this, allegedly. He won’t deny this sort of thing to someone who needs it.

And so, with a gulp, George writes down the number of his clinic and the name of his psychologist. Everything’s copper, everything’s tin. The air feels polluted and George can’t help but sink further and further into the purple skies. He can only pray this isn’t a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello helloooooooooo hope u enjoyed the chapter next ones a therapy arc if im not mistaken so that FUN WOOOOO self improvement is very very good ayeeee so sorry lol i am tired as shit but welcome welcome i accidentally spent six hours producing part of a song for no reason at all but now i just . have it . COOL it's called italy. (ending sequence) btw its pretty cool idk why that needed to be said its not like its published or anything but its a nice title let me Bask jhfdskjhf but yes yes hello hope u have a wonderful time period i love u all so much mwah!! :D


	19. Chapter 19

When Clay was a younger child, he wasn't exactly the epitome of normal per se. Often teachers would call home about his . . . unorthodox behaviours. Whether that be eating bugs in the playground during break times, scribbling novels worth of comics on his maths work or, his personal favourite, asking boys out for the dances. At the time, Clay never saw it as a big deal. He never imagined why liking someone could be wrong, nor why someone would find issues in it as a matter of fact. 

His mum was perfectly aware of this, Clay has always been open with her on these matters. His dad, however, he was never so lucky with. The stupid material armchairs remind Clay of that. The dull, grey reception looks almost identical to the one he sat in only years ago. The too-white walls seem to be a common factor with these buildings. Same goes for the lifeless furniture and anxious patients scattered around in a completely deafening silence. 

Dream sees white where his knuckles should be. They’re almost translucent through how hard he’s gripping the arm rests. His breaths are hardly steady, thankfully only on the brim of hyperventilating. He hates how pristine the reception is. He hates how he can count at least six other people in the room and there’s still not a single word being spoken. He hates every living and breathing part of this. 

Every passing second equates to years, Clay's sure of it. His bones are snapping and his mind’s melting into dog years and all he can do is sit on the side lines, hoping he doesn’t lose his other organs. 

His arms are red with scratch marks by the time a man in his thirties walks out of an unknown room and calls for him. A forced, miniscule nod emits from himself as he pushes up from the chairs and follows into the room.

His skin’s the first thing to go, burning into a pile of peach coloured brine on the futon. The unknown man sits opposite Clay. He seems nice enough, Dream knows. He looks good - not so much the stars melting into a man pretty, but pretty nonetheless. He holds out a hand and introduces himself. 

“Afternoon, Sir. I’m Dr. Taylor, I’ll be your practitioner over however long you decide to stay.” Dr. Taylor’s voice is nice. Not honey and lime nice, but alright. “Due to your circumstances, we can either spend this time talking, or going over methods to help cope with mental health. I would like to say, however, it’d be a much more effective approach to talk first.” Clay doesn’t understand how his new therapist can sound so utterly calm whilst fully aware Clay’s life is falling apart. It’s bewildering to him. 

Dream doesn’t want to talk. He’s more than fully aware of therapy. He knows he can’t speak. The issue is, Clay has no one to converse with about these subjects. Oliver’s been exhausted from them over the past few years. George’s no longer here. He can’t make his mum feel any more guilty. He doesn’t want to talk, he knows he can’t. But he does. “You - you won’t be disclosing anything I say, right?” It comes out slowly. A sentence that lasts a millennium, boring even the speaker. He shouldn’t be asking questions. His mouth should stay closed.

“No, no, of course not. Under a whole bunch of legalities and policies that’d bore you to death, we’re prohibited from disclosing information about our clients.” Dr. Taylor speaks in sporadic breaths. Like a politician debating who gets to live and who doesn’t. That is him, though. That’s all therapists are to Clay. He notices the brief pause in his doctor's explanation, however. “Is that a concern at all?”

It’s as sudden as they describe in the movies. Glass shards scraping the thin tissues on his brain, sculpting a horrible image of his past within it. Even if he’s not there, he can hear his dad’s voice acting the glass shards. He can see his dad auditioning for the part of disappointment. He can taste the Fairy dish soap he insisted Clay’s mum uses due to sensitive skin. The stupid, shitty things he’s forced to relive whilst the man that’s supposed to be his dad is away off somewhere. 

Dream cannot talk about this. He can’t. So he simply shakes his head, disinterested. He’s sure Mr. Taylor can sense his pavement façade. Clay's not the breezeblocks he thinks he is. He isn’t a thousand pounds of stones, building walls after walls, moats and oceans. He’s a feather. He’s a feather that’s waiting for the gust of wind to hurry up and blow him across the waves and the walls already. He’s a feather that’s unaware the gust came years ago.

“Erm, no. No, sorry. Just curious.” Clay steadies a sigh as he watches the walls disintegrate into black. “So, what about the coping strategies?”

Therapy lasts a lot longer than Clay anticipates. Even as he takes the easy route by discussing coping techniques, the world grows dark and cold, and the flowers wither and die, and Clay's left there. Stuck in his mind which is stuck in the past and he can’t escape. He’s sick of never being able to escape.

The car park is cold. It’s dim, it’s dull and, just like every bloody thing in Dream’s life, it’s too much. He’s struck by the vibrant blue sun, the yellow-warm weather. Why does everything else get to be so pretty, so perfect, whilst he’s stuck with nothing? It’s not fair.

It’s not fair whilst his eyes start copying the rain clouds. It’s not fair whilst he sinks to the edge of the pavement. None of it is. Nothing is fair and Clay’s not sure it ever will be. The mini pebbles look so small. They look so out of place. A giant sitting on a pavement leaves no rooms for boulders the size of pinpricks. The more he thinks, however, the more he realises that he’s the small one. Not the tiny boulders.

Clay feels trapped. Stuck in what’s supposed to be a beautiful summer gaze. What’s supposed to be a soprano of ‘hey, look at you go, you’re getting better!’ or at the very least give him closure. Instead he’s stuck in fizzy, he’s stuck in warped, he’s stuck in his mind. Until a voice pulls him out of his trance. A voice constructed by Aristaeus and the stars. A voice strained through the coffee filter that leaves a deep, rich, glow.

Clay has seen Heaven and he has seen Hell, but never before has he heard them both. Not until a drizzling honey and a sweet lime whisper a tidal wave across the road. It’s not a lot, really. But to Dream it’s oxygen. It’s a constellation of perfection in the stars and he can only be certain he’s the one that put it there. 

He isn’t known for much, not really. But he’ll be known by all as the man that died from a voice. A tiny, mere whisper of “Clay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT ALL GOES DOWNHILL FROM HERE LADDIES PREPARE UR ARSES


	20. Chapter 20

The air feels cold as George wraps his coat tighter around his frame. He can see his therapist's building from across the road. Grey and old disguised by hints of white and false modernity. Wisps of wind drag him across the street through great struggle. 

He's been avoiding therapy for the past month. It's not like he doesn't want nor _need_ it, he's just been excruciatingly between the shop and everything that's been happening. Not to mention just how needy Jamie's been. It's pathetic truly. 

George can hear the silence from within the building. He can feel it melting into his skin and carving a miniature hotel, and something in his brain tells him to stop. To turn to his left instead of walking directly inside. Some may call it fate, George will call it the sounds of sobbing, but he listens to his brain. He almost wishes he didn’t.

On the pavement, covered in copper and gold, sits Clay. Clay who’s crying his lungs out. George’s not entirely sure whether it’s the sight of Dream crying or the sight of Dream that leaves a bitter sting in his stomach. He doesn’t look away though, no. His eyes stay trained onto the boy he once loved as he spews his guts onto the pavement in the form of brine. George concludes he hates it.

He hates how even though Clay's supposed to be dead to him, George can’t seem to escape him. Maybe Clay’s a ghost. A beautifully disastrous mess of a ghost. A train wreck that leaves diamonds and ivy blooming through December grounds. George cannot look away no matter how much he sees the red flags and flashing amber. Instead all he can do is subconsciously whisper “Clay.”

It’s startling just how fast his head shoots up from the ground. George almost steps backwards into the bush of thorns his mind creates. He doesn’t. How can he when George’s face morphs into awestruck and panic? It’s torture, George’s sure. And yet he’s still here.

George crouches down besides Clay. He shouldn’t do this. He can’t. He shouldn’t be talking to the dead. Clay means nothing to George just like George means nothing to Clay. His skin crawls and burns every time he thinks that, but it’s only the truth. “Erm, are you . . . okay?” It isn’t as easy as it should be between them. Something’s there - a metaphorical barrier stopping them from slipping right back into their old ways. George’s okay with it. They need that.

Clay’s shaking. His whole being looks like the shell of a human. Pale and broken, ragged and dishevelled. George’s sure he’s seen moons glow darker than Clay. It’s all so sickening. So, so sickening. Clay speaks though. He talks with nothing but fear in his voice. “I - erm, George.” 

It’s awkward. Like a knife to his brain and a pen to his heart, it’s painfully awkward. He lets himself chuckle, though. George lets himself just have one bit of normalcy between themselves. “Glad to know you’re doing George, mate.” He’s not sure what he said, but Clay laughs too. It’s watery, it’s only thinly veiled in front of sadness, but he laughs.

“Not exactly, no.” Clay winks. George’s brows furrow briefly as the tension slowly, slowly rises. It’s wonderful, truly. But it can’t be this easy, he knows this. It takes approximately five seconds before George realises what Clay means and collides their shoulders in a gentle shove.

“You're such an idiot.” He muses. Dream’s full on wheezing at this stage, no longer hiding melancholy, but letting it drip away. Or maybe he’s just shoving it into a box labelled ‘Pandora’ and chucking the keys onto the highest shelf the God’s offer.

Everything’s porcelain. Sharp and broken and maybe George’s ignoring the glue marks but he’s not letting them get better. He swears he isn’t. At least not yet. “I, erm . . . Can we talk?” Clay asks. His voice is laced with honey. If George closes his eyes long enough, maybe he can ignore the lime. 

It’s an easy question, really. One George should know the answer to. One he should know to deny and walk away. The weather is warm, though. The skies are golden and Clay’s a tulip. He isn’t just a tulip tongue, he’s everything. George can’t deny everything. His face winces into an apologetic smile, though. “Not now, sorry - therapy.” His hands gesture to the building behind them. Clay nods understandingly, a dull wave crashing into his body as if he’s the shore. He can’t say yes. He can’t do it. “How about we get coffee though, later I mean.” Fuck.

He hates the wave of warmth circling in his stomach that appears when Clay brightens. He hates that he loves it. He hates that he loves Dream. “Oh, yeah sure! What time?” George feels like a teenager all over again. Except this time his crush reciprocates. This time it’s only bittersweet.

With a mind reeling, George smiles softly as he begins to stand. “Six maybe? I’ve got work after.” Clay nods determined. It’s nice. As much as George hates admitting this, it’s lovely. His legs take him towards the front entrance slowly. He doesn’t want them to be okay again. Not without a fight. 

“Hey, George?” Clay calls, turning his body towards the brunet. George stops in his tracks and turns around. “You - you mean a lot to me. More than I can really express. I’m sorry for making you think otherwise.” It’s short, it’s sweet and George must really need this appointment because he wants to forgive Clay. Just like that. Just like the past month didn’t happen. Just like it’s the beginning of summer and Clay’s running frantically into George’s shop to pick up a book again. 

A breath of air escapes George as he nods softly. As much as he’d love to say it’s alright, that Clay is the only thing he needs right now and nothing that happened has to have happened - he doesn’t. He can’t. And so, with what little dignity he has left, George responds with a simple “I know. See you tonight, Dream.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> starts beatboxing hello hello WOOOOOOOO therapy arc completed for the next few chapters lmao dwdw this is an important arc it gets revisited fhsfhjksdh hope ur all having a wonderful time period i love u all so so much mwah :D


	21. Chapter 21

Grinder's isn't exactly supposed to be open this late. Technically speaking, the shop was supposed to have closed over an hour ago. If that isn't obvious by the lack of staff, or poltergeists for customers, Clay's not entirely sure what is. Except, Clay isn't a poltergeist. Clay's flesh and bone and sitting across one of the corner chairs, gushing over every little detail about George to Ruth and Edna.

Never before in Dream's life has he been so glad for the couple. He can see they added extra string lanterns, dulled the lighting to a dark bronze, and are trying with every fibre in their beings to make this go well for Clay He loves them, truly. He's not entirely sure he deserves them, but he can't be more grateful he somehow does.

According to Dream’s calculations, George should still have another five or so minutes until he arrives. In the meantime, however, he tries to relax. The key word for Clay, sadly, is tries. There’s a very large, very ever-present black hole of self consciousness debating whether George will even show up. It’s not like he has to, really. Clay’s stupid for even thinking this is fine. Fuck relaxing, fuck it all. Clay’s an idiot.

Edna puts her hand on Clay's, furrowed brows and silver eyes. He almost laughs at how polar opposite, yet completely identical she is to his mum. It’s comical, really. Bonkers by the word itself. It takes his mind off of his anxiety for a bit. Maybe not as long as he’d like, but that doesn’t matter. Dream will take anything at this stage.

“It’s gonna be alright, love. He looks to be a lovely chap - you seem to really like him.” She speaks. It’s such a gentle gesture that it leaves Clay yearning for his younger days. Days where he’d come home from school and eat his mum’s failed attempts at baking biscuits. Days where he wasn’t a personification of pathetic fallacy. Days where he was happy.

But Clay’s reminded of George’s eyes. Beautiful honeycomb with specks of bronze and gold. An iced Earth blooming wild roses, white lilies and red carnations through its Midas gaze. Clay’s reminded of George’s smile. Brighter than any galaxy he’s ever seen, shining through stars and planets, only stopping to carve sculptures out of beauty itself. Dream’s a bumbling mess. A deeply sorry excuse for anxiety as the definition. But he’s never been more certain that George Davidson is something more than he’ll ever know. Something more than just alright. Clay’s settled for alright for far too long.

“I do.” Dream whispers. Ruth and Edna smile softly towards him. The whole world feels trapped in a cotton daze. It’s nice and warm and everything Clay needs. It’s everything he needs until the front door’s bell ding ’s absently throughout the whole café. Dream’s calculations are disproven as George floats softly into the room, confusion a present feature on his face as he looks around the shop. Clay’s never been good at maths though, it’s why he stuck to English.

Ruth grins towards Dream and chucks a pair of keys onto his lap as she and Edna stand up. “Right then, we better head off. Remember to lock up now, you two. No funny business.” She talks so reminiscent of Clay’s father before everything. Before the world shifted on an odd angle and Clay didn’t expect the transposition. It’s the entire essence of bittersweet wrapped up in an ice cold blanket and forced into the real world. He loves Ruth, though. He knows she isn’t like him. 

The pair exit the shop, leaving only Clay and George. Dream almost wishes he brought a camera. The expression on George’s face is enough to make Clay believe in the universe. Maybe the stars are a sign, maybe the world is on fire, maybe Dream’s staring directly at water. All he knows is he’s smitten. Absolutely, sickeningly smitten. 

The pair exchange smiles, small and soft. “Hi.” is the only word spoken between the two, courtesy of Clay. George is a rose petal. He is red and gold and any colour Clay believes to be perfection, wrapped into a giant who barely surpasses a toddler in the metaphorical sense of height. 

“Hi.” George sits down opposite Clay. He can sense the apprehension, the small, small bit of regret George feels in coming here. “Where is everyone?” It’s a good question - a great one at that. Clay’s certain Plato is slowly pulling himself through flowerbeds to rethink this Clayosophical mind fucker. Luckily, Clay’s not Plato. Clay actually knows the answer to this question.

“Oh, erm. You know how I’m kind of the adopted son of Ruth and Edna?” Dream asks. George responds with nothing more than even more confusion. It’s truly extraordinary. Clay makes an ‘ah’ sound before elaborating any further. “The owners of Grinder’s. ” He clarifies. “Erm, they kinda let me have the place for tonight.”

George’s eyes go wide, his mouth drops accordingly. After years of subjecting unsuspecting family members and friends to the worst types of horror films, Clay’s almost certain he can pin this expression down to one thing and one thing only. Fear. It’s electric just how fast he rushes to explain. “No, no! Nothing like that - I - I just thought hey, free coffee, you know? And - I’m sorry, this was stupid wasn’t it? Erm, we can go someplace -” George interrupts Clay.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Clay nods softly. “You’re an absolute bumbling fool, but you absolutely know how to woo a man.” It’s drastic how fast George’s opinions shift from fear to amusement. Clay’s entire body is a rose. He’s blooming through the warm leather chairs and spreading his broken petals through each individual hanging lantern and flower pot. He’s absolutely lightning. Bold and bright and smiling through the rain clouds, determined to strike even the tiniest bit of light throughout the darkest of storms. Electric. Absolutely bloody electric.

They fall into a comfortable silence after that until Clay suggests coffee. George sits back at his own seat, secluding himself into the boundless leather until not even his gaze reaches his fiddling hands. It’s just the two of them. Just George and Dream and the roasting pot of coffee the latter’s made enough times to know by heart.

The silence doesn’t last long, though. If Clay’s being completely honest, he’s not too sure there ever even was silence in the first place. Not until George speaks up, that is. “Hey, Clay?” It’s silent, almost. Washed up from the high pitched shriek of the kettle and muted by the ever present pounding in Clay’s chest. He hums in acknowledgment towards the brunet. 

George steadies himself, preparing to say whatever it is he wants to explain. “I’m mad at you. Really, really pissed and angry and any other synonym there is for how you made me feel.” Clay stops. He stops dead in his tracks like an animal at a crossing road. He’s no more the lion than he is the rabbit. He’s far more aware of that than he wants to admit.

It comes out as a whisper when Clay replies. He’s not too sure why, exactly. Especially considering that for all he cares, they’re the only people in the world. But he’s silent. Like the only soul in an empty graveyard, practicing what little respect they have. “I know.” It’s true, for the most part. Dream’s more than aware of just how badly he’s affected George. More than he wishes sometimes.

It’s all silent again. Clay continues making the coffee, George continues staring at his hands. It’s not exactly peace but it’s not exactly brevity. It’s just cotton dripping with blood. If Clay closes his eyes, he thinks he can just feel the cotton. 

George speaks up again, this time with more confidence. More assurance. “Hey, Clay?” He hums in response for the second time this strange evening. George swallows hard, certain whatever he’s about to say next will be hard to say. Maybe that’s alright. “I don’t want to be mad. Not tonight.” Dream can hear George’s teeth against his lip. “Can we - can we pretend, for tonight, only, that nothing happened. Can we just pretend I’m George and you’re Dream and this is the first time we’re meeting. We can wear masks if we want. I just don’t - I can’t handle being angry.”

Clay thinks for a moment. George’s words strike a string somewhere in his chest. He’s a violin, George’s the violinist. He’ll be played time and time again if all his screams will come across as beautiful pieces of music. Only if George’s the one playing. He doesn’t hate that it’s only George. “Like Halloween?”

George sighs in thought. “Yeah, I guess so. Can tonight just be Halloween? Just for us?”

Clay’s not sure he’s ever smiled as hard and genuinely as he does now. It’s stunning, piercing and wonderful. He’s not sure he’s ever felt such happiness before - even if the cause isn’t from something as perfect as he is right now. He loves it all. “Sure. Our own Halloween.” He loves George.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as u can tell ive been listening to a little bit too much pheobe bridgers when i wrote this wHOOPSIE DASIES but hello hello how are u? how's life? ily all so so much have a great time period mwah :D
> 
> ps. i would like to add that j did research on the flowers mentioned and they mean
> 
> wild roses - pleasure and pain
> 
> white lilies - my love is pure
> 
> red carnations - my heart aches for u
> 
> i think that’s right idk i didn’t read the language of flowers but yeah idk lol djshsh


	22. Chapter 22

George's not sure what he's doing here. He shouldn't be sitting across one of the greatest enigmas in the world, whilst perfectly aware his perfectly fine boyfriend is still at home, under the assumption George's over at a friend's. He shouldn't be ignoring everything that's happened between him and Clay. He shouldn't be describing the deceased as if they're petals on a still-blooming flower. 

None of this is alright. None of this is okay. George shouldn't be here and yet he is. He's still staring at Clay. He's still letting the man that ruined him talk about Halloween in the middle of August. He's still feeling his entire soul slowly rip itself out of his ribcage with every passing second. And yet he stays. He's still here for some utter mindfuck of a reason he's not sure he can even defend at this stage. He's not like Clay, he's not like everyone else in his life that only came to pass. George stays. 

He wishes far too hard sometimes that he was like everyone else. Maybe if he were, he would stand up for himself rather than hiding behind false Halloweens and relationships he knows deep down are only made for failure.

But Clay starts talking. He starts explaining something George can tell he’s passionate about. Clay starts letting George relive moments he’s never lived before. Clay let’s George live. It’s a life he’s never known - but it’s something. Even if it is just a recollection of his past pets, or favourite video games. George doesn’t care. He hates that he doesn’t care. He hates that he loves the grin on Clay’s face, the gemstones in his eyes, the way Clay speaks as though poetry was invented for this exact moment. George hates that he still loves Clay.

“Marge was a nun, though! I think, at least? Dunno really. Maybe she just really loved Sister Act. ” It’s exactly like the day they met. They’re sat at the exact same table, with the exact same drinks, believing ignorance to be a bliss in the exact same way they’ve been doing an awful lot recently. They’re smiling through the fire they created. George only wishes he would let Dream put out the flames.

There’s no momentous waterfall fluttering down rocky pathways into this den of burn marks and blaze they created. There’s no cascade of firefighters trampling across marsh and causeways just to save them. All they have now are each other and each other alone. If George breathes, if he maybe closes his eyes and focuses less on the gaping pit in his stomach and more on the smile on Dream’s face, maybe he’ll be alright. They can move on with their lives, with or without one another - but at least they won’t be constantly stuck in a Limbo of false forgiveness and knife wounds. 

Clay hands George his metaphorical rose and George can do nothing but smile each and every time Dream squeezes a little too hard and leaves George to bleed. If he can get through this one evening, he can get over Clay. He can stop praying to Deities that don’t exist. He can stop falling between passing planes of existence.

George’s not entirely sure how, maybe it’s the dim lights or caffeine adrenalin, but soon music's playing gently throughout the shop and Clay’s extending an arm. He’s as pale as moonlight and dark as evilness in its purest form and George’s simply falling for every cautiously placed trap Dream’s placed. Pathetic in the best usage of the word. That’s all George will ever be, he thinks.

“I don’t dance.” He states. George feels like two separate people. Like his entire body is being torn to shreds of his former self, and selfishly divided between ‘beauty can never be wrong’ and ‘who really is Clay’. All that’s left from collision after collision is a mushy shell worth of confusion and feigned ignorance. 

Clay smiles, George’s seeing stars. “Oh, come on. No one else is here.” 

His head turns slowly around the café. George’s not entirely sure why he wants to let Clay have this. Let him take over once again and make runes out of George’s progress. Make everything so wrong and malicious and perfect. “Don’t worry, really. My taste in music isn’t that bad.” Dream laughs again.

George’s sick of Halloween. He’s sick of mild imperfections and ignorant tyrants. All he wants is to forget. He just wants them to be alright. Or maybe he wants them to fail - burn out like flames in the midst of dusk. He knows this is wrong, he knows this is wrong. But he smiles. George smiles and accepts Clay’s laugh with grace and stops pretending for two seconds. That’s all he can make himself do right now. 

“Really? God, and here I was expecting the full audiobook coverage of Swann’s Way.”

Clay brings a finger to his mouth in a shushing motion, barely covering his scorching grin. “Saving that for later, darling.” Earth stops rotating, George’s sure. He’s being flipped on a vertical angle and he’s not sure whether it’s his stomach or his head that’s spinning but either way he’s stuck. He’s somehow frozen in place as the entirety of everything he’s ever known expands to the size of the planets and crumbles in front of him. 

Clay called George darling.

Darling.

Though most definitely in a joking manner, Clay called George darling and George can’t breathe. He can barely stutter out two syllables as bile rises up his throat in a way he can’t fucking tell is good or not. He hates it. He loves it. He can’t function. “I- erm, -”

It’s instantaneous, really. A snap of a witches finger that Dream realises what has been said. That the reality of the situation is they are not like they were before. They are being drowned by the very waters George expected Clay would use to put out their flames. “Shit. Erm, oh, God, George. I - I’m sorry - you know what? Erm, let’s just - let’s just forget about -”

George is dizzy from collateral damage. Clay’s still spinning. He hates that Clay’s still spinning. “No, no, really. Erm, it’s - it’s fine. You’re fine.” They’re not fine. George’s sick of playing the role of a method actor but he doesn’t know how to stop. Please, can he just stop.

Clay shakes his head and sits down. Even with the music playing silently in the background, they’re deafeningly silent. George wants to rip out his heart and tug his hair out of his scalp and rip his stupid fucking brain out of it’s stupid fucking cage. He wants nothing but to exist in a void unlike this one they’ve created. Clay sighs, running his claw like hands through his raven hair. He’s a bird and George’s a worm, staring in awe as Clay circles around the air surrounding him. It’s a mess. They’re a mess. 

“I really fucked up, didn’t I.” The air remains slightly too humid. Slightly too thick. Slightly too much.

George shuffles awkwardly in his chair. He doesn’t want to disagree with Clay. He doesn't want to talk about this now. All he wants is to ignore his pocket buzzing slightly, an indication his boyfriend is checking up on him. George’s boyfriend. “ We did.” 

Clay is nothing but confused. Maybe small. Maybe stupid and pretty and every single adjective under the sun - but all he’ll ever be really is confused. He doesn’t agree though, nor does he disagree. All Clay does is move along with the conversation. “We - we can get through this. Right?”

George exhales softly, shaking his head. “I don’t know, Clay. I don’t know.” Clay nods silently, dropping his gaze towards his hands. George hates it. “We can try, though. We - it’s not the end. We can try to make it not the end.”

The other man contemplates this, genuinely. The words spoken so softly from George rolling over in his head like a packet of loose marbles until he nods. Until he comes to a conclusion George can only hope is alright enough. “Yeah. We have each other. We can try.”

George smiles gently. He’s not exactly the suns and moons, but he’s something. He’s not poetry, nor is he perfect, but he’s here. He stays. And so does Clay. “We can try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LADS I JUST FOUND OUT GOOGLE DOCS HAS A FIND AND REPLACE FEATURE IVE BEEN MANUALLY REPLACING EVERY SINGLE NAME IM LOSING IT FUCK also very very important im changing it so that oli is now sapnap thank u sorry fhsdjk in case ur confused at all woooooooo love u all mwah !!


	23. Chapter 23

The city lights up as they walk, illuminating every blade of grass with such a deep intensity, George almost cowers. Benches nearby stand dusted from lack of use and soaked from the oncoming autumnal weather. It's nice. Not alright , not enough - it's nice. George's soaking in the brevity of the night, drowning in the elongated nature of it all. He's sick, he's tired, but Clay's making soup and tucking him in bed - even if it is just in his metaphorical mind palace - and it’s nice. It's not perfect, no, but to George it is.

After the plank-walk of a conversation they had, Clay offered to walk George home. Knowing the whole boyfriend fiasco he's hiding in his flat, George declined politely - agreeing to, instead, walk Clay back. George wonders too heavily why he’s hiding his boyfriend in the first place. It's not as if Clay will care - in fact, it's not as if Clay should care. They're friends. Hardly, even. They're just two beings that happened to meet one day. That happened to have similar interests. That happened to like one another more than they seem to be able to express. All they are is communication issues lit up in a flame of gold, and George's pouring honey over it, and Clay's shredding lime's atop. Anything to make it look nice. Anything to make it seem alright again. George thinks it will be alright. He hopes at the very least.

Words are hardly spoken between themselves. When they do decide to make an appearance, however, every syllable comes out as quiet and lethargic as the last. Silver drips from the city skyline, bathing London in a sickly calm nightfall. Ten at night and George’s already missing daylight. He’s already missing the blinding sun and monochrome skies. The moon’s pretty, sure, but George doesn’t want pretty right now. He wants nothing.

Clay's playing with his hands again, a nervous habit George noticed the first day they met. He notes the way Clay’s quiff is flattened and ragged. How Clay’s shirt is messily tucked and looks as though it hasn’t been near an iron in years. How even though the pitch blackness is blinding and the moon is too high up, Clay’s freckles are still visible, his blush is still burning into George’s skin as if it’s his own, his eyes are knife wounds to the stars. 

George’s hated a lot in his life, but he’s never wanted to hate anything more than Clay. 

“It’s nice - this, I mean.” Clay gestures awkwardly between the two. It must take an army of will to not give into Clay. Sadly, all George has is himself. His personal army has suffered enough wounds to give a single crap about his stupid entanglements.

His smile is soft, his breathing is laboured, and all George responds is “Yeah. It is.” They remain silent until they reach the beige towers of layered housing. Flowers scatter around balconies, castle-like turrets perch from above the building. It’s not as if this type of architecture is new to George per se - he’s lived in London long enough to grow accustomed to them by now - it’s still a nice sight though.

Their speech stays halted as they climb up stairs, breathing long past the calm solidarity they once built up, replacing itself instantly with a sporadic shit-show of what George’s fairly certain is undiagnosed asthma. He wonders briefly why they never bother to take elevators. It’s a fleeting thought, really, one that possibly perches itself away in the back of George’s mind for another day. It’s hard to focus on anything other than Clay though.

Clay’s door is mahogany. Pale brown mahogany. A golden etching of a number combination George can’t be bothered to remember cowards itself hardly above the surface of the plaster besides what can only be presumed a doorbell.

The air goes stale as Clay speaks. “Well, erm, this is my stop.” His hands slap to his sides and his lips purse. They shouldn’t be like this.

“Yeah, I - erm - I guess it is. . .” Their eyes meet, gaze strong. It’s a lot. It’s a lopsided weight dancing across a string of too much and too little. Somehow, in a way completely and utterly unbeknownst to God, let alone George, it’s perfect. But it’s just that, isn’t it? Somehow, with Clay it always is. 

George sucks in a breath and turns away. They can’t be doing this. Not when the hallway light here is shining as bright as the stars yet just three minutes away, George’s hallway light can barely stutter out a flash. Clay speaks though. Just as George feels the air crumble and the plants wither, Clay grabs his sleeve and speaks.

“Wait I -” George turns around, steadying himself for whatever Clay’s about to say. Clay tears his lip between his teeth, George can see him swallow a gulp. Whatever Clay wants to say, however, dies out in his throat. It’s a speech that’s never spoken because Clay leans down swiftly and the lights aren’t bright anymore. The plants aren’t dying anymore. They aren’t enough anymore.

George is a moth and Clay is a glitterball. George’s not Icarus, he’s not melting, he’s not flying too close to the sun just to drown in the ocean. They’re not what the past month has made them. They’re falling, they’re a mess, but the world’s spinning, the sun’s spiralling, the moon’s dilating. George becomes a lake and Clay becomes a garden and they’re drowning in each other whilst growing.

An insistent pounding in the back of George’s head chants mantras of your boyfriend’s at home but it doesn’t matter. He’s fucked beyond repair so why should it matter? Why should any of this matter? Clay’s golden, George’s glitter. That’s all they are and for some mindfuck of a reason, George doesn’t care. If this happened two minutes ago, George would’ve wished he was like everyone else. He would’ve wished he could run away and go back home to his boyfriend and pretend nothing happened. But it’s not two minutes ago. 

George doesn’t go back home tonight.


	24. Chapter 24

A soft beam of light flows slowly into Clay's bedroom like water through a river. For once in his life, he's not cowering away from the harsh buzz of sun or burying his tired body further into fortresses of his duvets and pillows. Rather, he's lying contentedly, soaking in the presence of the dulled autumnal sky. The sculpture of a man lying on Clay probably doesn't hurt his good mood either, if he's being honest.

Slowly blinking his eyes into consciousness, Clay hardly has time to register his own wakefulness before his mind is completely and utterly George . George whose eyes are barely open yet clouded with thoughts Clay's not entirely sure are positive. George whose lips part slightly in a subconscious effort to show up God himself. George whose staring at absolutely fuck all, and still leaving Clay to imagine poetry blossoming from every crevice and miniscule crack in the wall which captures George's attention so.

The distance between them becomes too much quite quickly, leaving Clay with no other choice but to pull the brunet into an unrequited hug of sorts. George’s eyes graze over Clay’s swiftly, a tiny smile replacing the melancholy scowl that plastered over George’s face only mere seconds ago. Clay likes the silence, he thinks. Only when George’s there. “Morning.” 

George blushes gently, turning his eyes downcast. One of his hands makes its way up to cover his mouth in an, admittedly, horrific attempt at covering his smile. Clay reaches over to lower George’s hand. He loves his smile. A lot. “Morning.” George repeats.

Clay’s not exactly one for wanting to get out of bed. Usually it’s about dead last on his agenda. Somehow today, whether it be the silver clouds illuminating the golden sun, or the literal diamond lying next to him, Clay can’t think of one moment he’s ever wanted to last more than now. Somehow today feels perfect.

The genius plan of never moving seems to fold into a paper ball and throw its crumpled self into the ocean only seconds after its conception. George breaks eye contact with Clay with a sheepish cough. “‘Do you have any food?” George asks. It’s a stupid question really. Clay can’t stop himself from laughing hoarsely - still struggling with the lack of voice mornings always seem to provide him.

“No, actually - some hobgoblin broke in last night and stole the bloody lot.” Clay cackles, trying his utmost best to calm himself before his voice is completely gone. George deadpans, a pointed look enough for Clay to break. Somehow laughing at George’s stoic face is more important than his ability to talk. It’s worth it, he thinks. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll make pancakes, Mr. hobgoblin.”

George reaches over to shove Clay gently, faux anger easily being broken by his bumbling laugh. “You’re an idiot.” 

“Oi, this idiot is making you breakfast!”

“Oh, shit, how could I have made such a mistake.” George says, voice purposefully coming across as robotic. Clay smiles, slowly pulling himself up from their makeshift blanket fort, kisses George on his nose (earning quite an adorable reaction on George’s behalf as his face scrunches up in retaliation) as he begrudgingly makes his way towards the light grey kitchen. 

Cooking isn’t exactly Clay’s . . . expertise, per se. Flour coats the counter in piles that could quite easily compete with the Burj Khalifa, egg shells and yolks create colonies of bacteria as they lay in the midst of the powdery mess, whilst Clay is in no better of a state. A very large, very grateful, part of him praises everything he knows for past Clay asking Oli to leave him the flat for the weekend. God knows what he’d think if he came into the room right now.

A pair of arms snake around Clay’s waist and a heavy head rests gently on his shoulder. Guess George’s up, he thinks. It’s nice. Really fucking nice. Clay melts slowly into the other man’s frame, letting the morning soak into them. The domesticity of it all is so warm. So utterly and powerlessly perfect. George’s the sun and Clay’s a moth. No, George’s a glitterball and Clay’s a moth - letting him get closer and closer, more infatuated by the minute, but never leaving burn marks. Never scorching Clay. Just illuminating every perfection of his and lifting it up for the world to see.

“What the fuck are those.” George states, pointing to a pile of maybe, possibly, completely charred ‘pancakes’. Clay’s not entirely sure they can be classed pancakes at this stage. The sorry excuse for existence can hardly be classed as food by any laws of nature.

“Pancakes?”

“I thought you were kidding when you told me you were practically blind.” George sighs, reaching over to inspect a piece of the actual charcoal. “How did it even get this burnt?” His voice is incredulous, dyed tenfold with amusement and fondness. Clay’s head’s spinning out of pure elation, but he can’t seem to hate the dizziness.

“I needed a piss.” Clay frowns, breaking off a piece from the pancake George picked up, deciding his baking skills deserve more than this slander. “I’m sure it’s not that ba-” As soon as the thing reaches Clay’s mouth, his gagging reflexes kick in. “What the fuck was that?!” he screeches, mouth tinted by what he’s entirely certain is some form of poison. 

George’s doubled over in laughter, tears spilling from his eyes in a happiness Clay missed seeing. “I’ll call for delivery.” George decides, barely able to compose himself as he pulls out his phone.


	25. Chapter 25

By the time their food arrives and they're sitting at Clay's dining table, a slight pitter-patter of rain climbs gently from the skies to the roofs of Oxford Street. It's calming, Clay thinks. No where near a storm, no where near blistering suns. It's simply background music, emphasising every smile of George's with a dimple, and every thought of Clay's with complete and utter mush. 

"I'm glad we did this, really." Clay muses. He's not entirely certain such genuine words have ever left his mouth. A small grin dances across Clay's face as his gaze meets George's. The brunet nods shyly, lowering his vision to the table in an attempt to hide a blush from Clay. It doesn't work.

"Yeah,” Clay notes how George plays with his hands, how his smile never leaves his face. “I, uh, I am too.” 

Conversation pauses after that, leaving the pair to eat in a comfortable silence. Occasionally, they steal a gaze or two from the other, more than often resulting in roses blooming on their cheeks. Clay still can’t process George’s perfections. He still can’t process how lucky he is that George's forgiven him. It’s a brief, wonderful thought, but Clay thinks everything might be okay. Maybe they’ll be okay.

The outside weather continues to drip carefully from the skies, sweeping over London with a light silver hue. Clay can only imagine parents and children rushing home, office workers running sporadically to or from work, all away from something Clay views as beautiful. A small thought plants itself into Clay’s mind, leaving a slight grin to form. 

No matter how pretty the rain might be, it’s nothing in comparison to George. 

“It’s pissing outside, huh.” Clay mutters, conversationally. George’s eyes dart towards the windows, a hum of agreeance his response. Now’s his chance. “You can’t go out in this weather, you know. Colds and the just.” Clay elaborates. 

His head darts upwards as a bloody snort takes over the room. “Clay Lester, are you asking me to stay over?” George laughs. Guess I wasn’t that subtle. Clay’s head instantly goes back to the cold plate of pancakes set up on the table, his whole being turning the darkest shade of red he’s ever had the pleasure of turning.

“I- I mean, not if, if you - you know; want to or -”

“I would love to.” George interrupts, beaming like the sun means nothing - which, in all fairness, is completely correct when George’s in the room. “I mean, the weather is just -” The gesture alone of George sarcastically referencing Clay’s shitty reasoning to stay shoots bouts of serotonin throughout him. It’s lovely, the domesticity of eating breakfast at the table together. The navigation of what’s allowed and what’s not. Clay’s never truly felt this way before. He’s never had flowers grow through his tongue and stars shine through his eyes. He’s never felt alive. Not like this.

Clay waits for it, he truly does, but the silence never arrives. Instead, a barely muffled buzz rings from across the table. George’s eyes furrow briefly as he reaches over to check. Clay can’t ignore the lump that forms in George’s throat, the way his mouth drops open slightly as the world completely crashes down from any and all of the heavens, and lands upon his brittle little head.

George blinks heavily, manic eyes rushing across the room as he stands up. Clay winces as George’s chair squeaks far from pleasantly on the floor. “I - oh, God, Clay. I’m sorry, I can’t - I can’t - I’m sorry.” He’s rushing over his words, slurring upon every syllable. 

Clay reaches out towards the man, brows furrowed in concern. “Is everything o-” 

George’s out the door before Clay can finish his sentence. 

-

It takes a few hours before Clay decides he needs to see if George’s alright. The rain hasn’t stopped since morning, instead growing stronger throughout the day until it reached just below the point of a storm. That hardly phases Clay, though. He still decides to walk.

Through amber streets and oceans, Clay stumbles across a small shop tucked away behind a Poundland and a discarded furniture store. Vines crawl across mossy stones and clouded windows, dancing loosely upon etchings within the walls. “ Burt’s Bud’s” reads the sign. A flower shop, huh.

A very large, very overpowering part of Clay wants to go in. After all, George’s in distress, something happened. Even if a small gesture, maybe a bouquet will help soften any melancholy George might be facing. That alone is enough for Clay to walk into the shop steadily.

The shopkeeper helps Clay pick out an array of asters, giving the odd look or two between him and the weather. It doesn’t bother Clay much, however. He’d put himself through Perseus’ trial to save the love of his life - the rain means nothing to him but a poorly placed obstacle. 

George’s complex comes into Clay’s visions not too soon after leaving the shop, dark glass towering high into the skyline of London seemingly swimming through the shower. Clay tightens his grip on the flowers, taking in a deep breath and jogging towards the building

He averts the elevators, opting for the staircase, cursing at George for living on one of the higher floors. Never once does the excitement of seeing George leave his bones, never once does he stop smiling. Even as his breath disintegrates from existence and his legs crack out of lethargy. Seeing George is worth it. Cheering up George is worth it.

Dark brown doors slowly come into Clay’s vision, golden numbers trace the frame. George’s flat. Unlike last time, the hallway light seems to slowly be fixing itself. It’s not the brightest, no, but it’s shining. It’s enough. Clay raises his fist slowly, excitement turning to nerves as Clay brings his knuckles into contact with the wood. Knock, knock, knock.

Ushered shuffling can be heard from inside the flat, eventually replacing its presence with that of a fully grown man. One Clay’s never seen before. Okay, not George’s flat. Clay looks up at the man, an uneasy feeling melting in the pit of his stomach. “Oh! So sorry, I think I got the wrong -” 

Clay physically feels the flowers between his palms wilt as a voice calls from within the flat. “Who is it, love?” George. 

Wrong flat, wrong flat, wrong - George approaches the doorframe, a smile etching his face. It drops the exact second he realises who’s at the door. Maybe they’re just friends. Friends call each other love right? Friends hug friends, right? Friends kiss friends. Clay feels sick. 

“Clay.” It’s a whisper. It’s small. It’s broken. And yet somehow, for some fucking reason, it cuts into Clay’s skin like a knife. It digs straight to the bone and laughs as he bleeds out. George turns to the other man, “Jamie - can - can we get some.” He gulps, straightening his posture, “Would you mind leaving for a second, please.” 

Jamie nods, eyes becoming wary. Clay shakes his head, backing up against the wall. “No, I - I’m - I’m gonna. . .” Clay leaves.

George follows.

A small part of Clay’s able to recognise the sound of a door slamming. Nothing matters though, not as the stairwell comes into view. He never reaches it. George grabs his sleeve.

“Clay, wait -” Desperation scrapes across George’s voice like nails to rust. It’s painful. It hurts.

“Oh, God. Oh - Oh, God, no.” Clay’s muttering manically. His head’s shaking, his eyes are watering, everything is on fire and he’s making no effort to extinguish the flames. Would any effort even help? 

“Please.”

Clay can’t breathe. He can’t breathe and his skin’s on fire and his brain’s melting and he can’t do anything. It hurts. It hurts too fucking much. George feels like glass and rust and his words taste like old blood and the rain is no longer a small ring in his ears, but a grenade. He can’t do this.

“Please, Clay -”

“We, you - I loved you.”

“Clay, please, I - I love you too, please -” George’s panicking. His words aren’t words, they’re matches. Clay’s house is on fire and George’s solution is burning the street. 

“We did - I gave you everything. ” Clay’s hair is falling to the floor and his skin’s melting and his bones are drowning. The ghosts within his chest plant dead flowers through the crevices of his spine, each a mockery of his grave. Each a beckoning to something more than this. More than George. More than whatever the fuck is happening.

Something seems to change in George. Something clicks. “We both know that’s not true.” If Clay were in a more stable mindset, he possibly would’ve noticed George’s putting up a defence. Putting up walls of iron and stone in the shittiest attempt possible to keep him safe. He would’ve noticed the only way George knows to keep himself safe is to hurt others.

Clay’s not in a stable mindset, though. All he notices are scars forming across his body, and water rising faster and faster across the hallway and that stupid fucking light that was never fixed. That never will be fixed. “ I gave you everything. ” Clay’s whispering. He can’t talk. He drops the asters and curses everything he knows. If asters symbolise love, why is he losing everyone? Why does he always lose everything?

“You left me. What did you expect to happen?” George knows he’s lying. He knows his bones are crumbling and his walls are fortifying themselves and he wants to stop . Why can’t he stop? “Fuck, why would I love someone who leaves? Why would you ever think I’d love someone who leaves?”

Clay stops. His body feels heavy. George’s eyes widen. The hallway light isn’t working. Nothing is working. “Oh, God, Clay - I - I didn’t mean -”

Clay blinks. His house isn’t on fire. He isn’t drowning. He’s done using metaphors to romanticize his agony. He is hurting. Clay is in pain. Somehow his voice is even. “I left because I was scared. Because events in my life led me to believing fleeing is the only solution. Because those same events made me think I was wrong.” George stays silent. “You had sex with me, knowing full well you have a boyfriend. You blamed everything on me when this was always us . You made me think you loved me. ”

“I do -”

“You were never going to tell me about him, where you.”

George stays silent.

Clay gulps, nodding. 

“Have a good life, George.”

Clay leaves.

George doesn’t follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> turns out i cant use the google docs thingy bc it replaces everything with that if u see georgecing at all pls know i am in pain too FHDSJKH


	26. Chapter 26

Clay leaves.

George doesn't follow.

Instead, the dim hallway serves a plank, George's flat being the ocean. The floor leaves splinters on his feet and the weights on his ankles only welcome the sharks and George's certain he's fated to drown. He can't do this. Why can't he just be like everyone else and leave? Why does he always have to stay? Why does he always have to burn in the rubble?

The door opens as soon as George reaches for the handle. Jamie stands in the doorframe, clenched jaw, crossed arms, eyes downcast. George gulps. "Sorry 'bout that, old . . . friend." He's lost everything. The least he can do is salvage what's left of this relationship.

"The walls aren't soundproof, George. I'm not an idiot." Oh.

George’s panicking, but the walls are no longer caving in. He’s exhausted, he’s numb. He’s no longer drowning, he’s no longer on fire, he’s simply a pile of ashes that burnt out far too long ago. “I - I can explain -” As tired as he is, George still tries.

“Save it.” Jamie inhales. “God, I - I know I haven’t been the best of all boyfriends but what the fuck?” George’s eyelids feel heavy, his body is lead. It’s like he’s viewing himself in third person and he can’t exist like this. He doesn’t want to exist like this again.

“Jamie, please -”

“What, George? What are you gonna say, huh? He was the love of your life ? You didn’t mean to have sex with him?” George stays silent. The floorboards are poison straight to his eyes and yet he can’t look away. If he looks away he’ll be struck with a fate far worse than death. Far worse than poison. Disappointment.

“God, please, he fucking isn’t. If he was the ‘love of your life’ or whatever pedestal you seem to be shagging him on, you wouldn’t have done this. You’re sick. You’re fucking sick.” George wants to defend this. He wants to make everything alright. But Jamie’s pissed. George can’t think of a single reason he shouldn’t be.

“And to think I genuinely believed you were out with a friend? How stupid can I get.” Jamie lets out a humourless laugh, running his hands through his hair. Whatever interests George about the floor must mean absolutely fuck all to Jamie. His eyes stay imprinted on George. All he wants is to run away. To cower under his bed until he wakes up and realise this was all a dream. Maybe if he faints it’ll end. If he passes out on the floor here and now, maybe Jamie will feel sympathy. Maybe Clay will rush to him and tell him everything’s okay. George gets dizzy. He doesn’t faint.

“I did.” George whispers. Somehow the only thing he’s able to say is defence. Shitty defence, but what can he do? What can he say? George’s fucked up and nothing he says or does can fix this. Why can’t he fix this? 

Jamie blinks at George, furrowing his brows as he exhales. “What is wrong with you?” George gulps. “You know what? Fuck this, I - I’m gonna get a hotel for the night. I’ll get my things in the morning. Have a good fucking life.” Jamie leaves. George breaks.

The walls turn into oceans and yet again, George is drowning. He can’t seem to muster up the energy to swim, nor to open his eyes, nor to cry. He’s simply letting his body float through glass shards and old blood as he sits. He sits still and doesn’t flinch. He can’t flinch.

The logical answer would be to call his therapist. Maybe George could schedule an appointment for tomorrow morning, he could go, talk everything over, let himself believe this isn’t the end. That he still has something. George can’t think logical now. The only thing he can think of is the way Clay looked at him. The way he’s never seen such disgust on the face of someone he loves. Not when he came out to his parents. Not when they found out about his depression. Not when his first girlfriend caught him making out with some bloke he found one night.

George has issues. He has problems no one should have to deal with and yet he’s hardly making any effort to change. He thought he was getting better. He thought everything was fine. Only he couldn’t see the lakes behind his goggles and he couldn’t smell the ash through his cold and every step towards something better turned out to be a step towards his past self. He’s done ignoring smoke through the trees. All he wants is for the world to stop. All he wants is to be better. 

Jamie left him. It’s not as if he was going to stay anyways - London was only a holiday for him. They spoke about long distance, though. Only, now he’s not here. He’s not here to distract George from everything. He’s not here to tell him he needs to change for all the wrong reasons. He’s not here to guide George through loneliness. 

Clay left him. It’s not as if that’s his fault, though. None of this is anyone’s fault but his own. Clay’s not here to light up the stupid hallway light. He’s not here to pick George up, dust him off and tell him everything will be alright. Clay’s not here.

It almost feels like George’s not here either. His body feels a thousand miles away from the sun and a thousand miles away from Earth. Not even the burnouts are staying in his mind. He’s floating. 

It strikes George just how reliant he is. Just how much he depends on everyone else. He can’t guide himself through loneliness on his own. He can’t dust himself off alone. He can’t function without someone else. Maybe that’s his issue. Maybe that’s why George can’t handle having no one. God, he needs to change. George needs to fix his issues by himself. 

It becomes painfully obvious to George that he needs to win Clay back. As the walls collapse around him and the skylines of London turn murky red, George realises something. In order to get Clay back, he needs to work on himself. George needs to work through all of his issues, everything he’s been pushing down for far too long. 

As the moon crashes upon George’s head, and the ocean slowly seeps through his bones, George’s able to grab his phone throughout the chaos and make a single call.

“Hi, erm, is Doctor Taylor free this week?”


	27. Chapter 27

Neutrality is the best way Clay can describe this situation. A dulling, numbing neutrality. Never have pale green walls turned to vines so quickly, and never have vines strangled him so. There are no roses, no wisteria or ivy - only slightly too much pressure on his jugular. The fluorescent lights are blinding, the fabric chair is restraining, and his therapist is staring.

And Clay is sitting. Sitting on the ever receding line of _'I don't know whether I'm dreaming or if I'm alive'._ Clay concludes no matter what form of being his present body belongs to, it should give up. Wake up from this tactical mindfuck of a strategy to put him off whatever immoral action caused this nightmare. Or sleep, no matter if only for the two odd hours he seems to class as gold now, at least he's no longer here. At least the chair isn't too scratchy there. At least his breaths aren't as hollow as his cheekbones, his mind's not as messy as his bedroom floor. At least in a dream he can stop. Pause. Leave.

“You’re giving me nothing here, kiddo. There’s no rush to speak but -” _Clay wishes he was dreaming right now._

“’M not a kid.” He mumbles.

Doctor Taylor falters shortly, eyes glancing up from the scribbled on notepad to his test subject. His project. No matter how great therapy truly is, no matter how much good it can do for him, Clay refuses to accept. Because it can’t be. There’s no universe in which it can be. “I’m sorry?”

Clay straightens up, coughing lightly into the palm of his hand. “I’m a twenty four year old man. I’m not a kid.” Dr. Taylor nods in question, refusing to break the eye contact hold Clay forces the poor man into.

“Right, erm, sorry.” With a sigh and straightening of his tie, Dr. Taylor continues. “Look, I understand your . . . disdain for therapy, but I assure you, I can’t help you if you won’t help me.” 

There’s a saying Clay never fully understood in all his years alive. _If you can’t beat them, join them._ The mere idea of ignoring the paranoia rooted into him from such a young age, just for the odd chance the events won’t repeat. The small, miniscule chance that he won’t have to relive everything _they_ put him through. Clay won’t take chances, he can’t. 

“I’ve got nothing to say.” The sentence is gritted through teeth, poured through acid, and Clay can’t bring himself to care. This is stupid. He opened up too much last session alone just by listening to this . . . stranger. 

“In case you’ve forgotten, Clay, I’m a trained psychologist. I didn’t spend five years in university studying defence techniques only to ignore obvious signs of paranoia.” 

Clay stops. This isn’t paranoia. It can’t be paranoia because if it’s paranoia that would mean there’s nothing wrong. That would mean Clay has avoided therapy for eight years for no reason. It's not paranoia. It can’t be paranoia.

“I’m not -”

“To you, maybe not. Due to what your record states, you have reason to believe therapists are conspiring against you. We’re not, Clay. I promise I’m just here to help.” The air is too stiff. Why is the air so stiff? “Look, I - I’m assuming you’re not going to go anywhere, for the moment being and it’s quite obvious something happened, might as well talk about it.” 

There’s a very large, very omnipresent part of Clay that understands what Dr. Taylor is saying to be truthful. There’s an even larger, even more omnipresent part that refuses to listen. In the end, the two parts merge together into a cluster of compromise, agreeing to withhold their weaponry if Clay tells half truths. If he doesn’t leave vulnerable.

“Last week my, erm, my . . . _girlfriend_ . . .” Clay pauses, eyes training themselves on the man opposite. _No change in posture, no questioning face, proceed._ “. . . _She,_ erm - well, we weren’t really . . . together . . . per se. More so, reuniting - I - I guess. Mollifying what I - we put each other through.” Dr. Taylor nods. If Clay weren’t opposed to the concept of religion, he would’ve praised every God and Deity to his knowledge for leaving the notepad near the therapist empty. He’s not a project. He’s not a subject. He’s not someone that can be taken apart, torn to shreds, and written down like a pretty portrait. His trauma’s are not something to draw along with lavenders and poppies. 

“So this is a breakup then?” Dr. Taylor prompts. Clay pauses, eye’s trained to the man. Almost instantaneously, his gaze fixes into a glare, his loose mouth falls into a tight dead-pan, his words turn to defence. 

“ _No._ ” Only the more Clay stops, the more he subjects himself to mulling over the events, one thought presents itself; _Were we ever together?_ All they really were were friends who kissed. Friends who found comfort in each other. No effort to place labels was ever made. Their ‘relationship’ wasn’t exactly a relationship at all, actually. Clay breathes slowly, face drooping into solace. “We were never together.”

A brief shuffling sounds from beside Clay, along with a motioning of hand to urge a continuation with his story. _Constrain yourself,_ Clay reminds himself. “H- she, _she,” No change in posture, no change in facial expression. Continue._ “Erm,” _Stop._ “I don’t really want to continue this.” _Fuck._

Dr. Taylor smiles apathetically, nodding towards Clay. “That’s perfectly fine, there’s no rush - whether you decide to speak or not. If the moment ever arises in which you feel comfortable disclosing this event, we can always revisit. This is entirely up to you.” Clay gulps, head spinning. This isn’t supposed to happen. Dr. Taylor isn’t supposed to be polite. He isn’t supposed to let Clay set boundaries. 

Clay smiles, letting out the knot of a breath that’s been forming within his chest since entering the building. “Thank you.” 

Neither Dr. Taylor nor Clay bring up George again. Dr. Taylor respects when Clay doesn’t want to speak on a subject, he respects Clay. There’s no switch that’s flicked, no lightbulb materialising above his head. Dream doesn’t feel comfortable within these four walls, he doesn’t trust his therapist in the conventional way. But for the first time since the beginning of his therapy sessions, Clay doesn’t entirely resent the idea of therapy. He simply dislikes it very, very much. _This is entirely up to him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woowoowoowoo welcome to the therapy arc tm this is prolly horrific since i may or may have not been watching quackity's cooking stream whilst writing no cooment fdshfhdskh but hello hello how are u?? all good i hope :D thank u guys so so so much for such a positive response to this fic especially since its still very very new it means a lot hfdskhj also alsoooooooo ik there was an issue with name translations since this is originally not a dnf work but it should be fixed now !! if u end up finding anything pls pls let me know i usually write/edit when i am in a very ....... not awake ....... state of mind aka 5am fhjsdk rn its 2am tho so its cool fhsjkd anywho!! i hope u enjoyed the chapter pls feel free to comment it helps out a lot with my procrastination lmao !! i hope u all have an incredibly time period i love u all so so much mwah :D


	28. Chapter 28

Not too long after Clay's fifteenth birthday, his mother put him into therapy. The pressures of academic progress weighed down too hard until he developed an anxiety disorder which, to this day, haunts the man as a brooding poltergeist. Of course, his father wasn't exactly pleased with this. Clay can't count the amount of times his father's mouth would purse during dinner, his posture would straighten just that little, unnatural amount, or he'd simply avoid Clay throughout the corridors.

There was no neutrality, no flowers blooming upon thorns or ghosts floating through Clay's arteries until softness poured through his lungs. Only a room. A slightly too cold, slightly too white room. And a chair. A fabric chair that often left rope burns on Clay's skin. The majority of the time spent in Hell - the torturous, malevolent building - burnt to a crisp within Clay’s mind and flew into a cage somewhere in the back of his mind.

During this time, Clay repressed so much, he forgot his own name. There were days in which his own mother's face looked distorted, _wrong_. But according to his therapist, this was progress, this was right. The days he could hardly remember the sky from the ground were the easiest. Ignorance may not be a permanent bliss, but permanence wasn't something Clay expected.

It took a good few sessions for Clay to say too much. All the signs of unprofessional, all the microaggressions, every single way she’d prod until he broke simply went unnoticed. Because ignorance is a bliss. Because permanence doesn’t mean anything when he can hardly remember his own name. All the trust he poured into this one, singular person, that tore into the clouds, crashed back down to the Earth in the form of lightning. Every time Clay thinks back to that day he wonders, if the rain hadn’t settled within the dirt, if he hadn’t found an old pair of rubber boots, would he have been struck by the lightning he caused?

Of course there wasn’t any lightning, really. One thing Clay’s mother always told him was to stop romanticizing pain. Stop treating his trauma’s like lavenders on the side of a path. Metaphors only cause a rose filter, a silk touch to cobbled paths. She wasn’t wrong. To this day, Clay can’t think of a single flaw within her logic. And yet through all the correctness, through all the understanding, every time Clay scrapes his chin or falters his smile, a comparison to roses is all he can see.

On Clay’s seventeenth birthday, his father kicked him out of the house. The only person in his life apart from his family, was a man he barely knew during his academy days - Oliver Harold. It didn’t take much research for his mind to spiral back to that increasingly dark place, for him to realise something he wished he could forget: Oliver moved to Brighton for university. For the first time in years, it seemed, Clay met with a four leaf clover and a stroke of luck. Within two weeks of talking, Clay moved to Brighton with his new friend.

The night Oliver picked Clay up from the airport, a wave of depression roamed throughout the crevices of Clay’s mind. Oliver must’ve noticed - how, Clay will never know - but something shifted that night. A scared, begrudging truth neither truly believed until much, much later. That night, Oli looked Dream dead in the eyes and told him

“No need to be scared. This is all up to you.”

-

Getting over George isn’t exactly as hard as Clay would’ve imagined. Sure, some nights - if not most - are spent staring at the ceiling, wondering where everything went wrong. Which miniscule mistake led to their demise. But he’s doing better. For the first time in months, Clay’s doing better.

College started back up just two weeks ago, and with no other defensive techniques left, Clay eventually found distractions to be a questionably healthy coping mechanism. Even if he’s left a walking corpse on most days, with carved eye sockets and a clouded brain, even if Clay forgets to eat or shower some days, even if he can’t seem to function properly, to the point of forgetting his own name, at least he’s forgetting George in the process.

Oliver’s worrying. Of course Oliver’s worrying. It’s been a month or so since Clay’s spent a full day in the flat, since he’s stopped for a moment and spoken about his emotions. And all Oliver’s left to do is mindlessly watch his friend throw away yet another lifespan, all because his emotions are too much. 

Clay feels too much, and represses too hard.

At least it’s only some days he doesn’t remember his name. At least it’s only some students who get met with a questioning glance when they ask Clay a question. Ignorance is a short term bliss, but that’s all Clay needs. Thinking long term has ruined everything he’s ever known, so why should he do the same? Why would throwing away his life in the exact same way his father did, his best friend did, the love of his life did, solve anything? 

Only Clay’s left ruining his own life in his own way. In his own, stupidly pragmatic way. He’s falling, too hard too fast, and the skies have drowned blue, and the clouds have faded into murk, and he can’t breathe most days. But that’s okay. He can’t breathe, he can’t see, he can’t live, but at least he doesn’t remember his name. At least his own mother looks distorted enough to match his swirling brain, at least George is nothing but a heartbeat to him now. 

Clay’s mother told him not to romanticize pain with metaphors but all he can do now is disguise his insomnia with roses, his scraped chin with silk, and the constant ache in his body with tulips. And it’s okay. This ignorance is okay. Because even if he can hardly function most days, at least he can hardly remember George.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okie okie so , this is a bit of a weird chapter ill admit, the writing styles slightly different hfsdjk i hope u enjoyed it though !! BASICALLY WOO !! were finally starting to figure out more about dreams past woo woo what a time to be a live i say hfjsdk i promise its going to be in more detail later i just wanted to test something out now which is why its again a slightly different writing style hfdsjkh but yes yes i hope yous enjoyed!! pls comment if u want i get very lonely fhsdj i love u all so so so much have a wonderful time period mwah !! :D


	29. Chapter 29

Jamie isn't supposed to leave George. True to his word, however, he's gone. Not physically, no, George stares directly towards the stress lines painting a portrait on Jamie's forehead, but never before has someone felt so far away. So unobtainable. 

There's an ushered silence, a silicone grey silence that dances softly throughout the room in a waltz. Only, George is the only person in four time, crouching at staccatos and waiting patiently throughout the quavers. But Jamie finds no issue in the dance. No issue in swaying lightly in time, gently with the beat of the piece. Maybe the music ended years ago, though. George can't hear a single bloody thing these days and it  _ hurts.  _

__ It hurts because everyone's spinning, twirling within their golden haze's, glowing in the moonlight and George is drowning. He's sporadic, not elegant, he's a blur amongst the crowd, not an enigma of beauty, and it  _ hurts.  _ The moon sings a ballad, luring George in every single time, and every single time he mistakes the Siren for a mermaid. Every single time he drowns.

George is brought up from the waters momentarily, to greet the sound of shuffling at his doorway. Jamie coughs into his hands, a nervous habit George assumes. Truth is, George is tired - exhausted beyond the brink of humane. But Jamie’s never looked a day younger - even with his unshaved stubble and stress lines. A surge of jealousy wades slowly through the veins of George, until sanity makes to be a peacemaker.  _ You deserve this. _

“I came to get my things.” Jamie states. George wants to laugh until his lungs bleed through his skin, and his eyes disperse into nothing but acid, and his tongue revolves into a tulip. If George was a tulip, would any of this have happened?

Without a word, George steps to the side, letting the man he once dated into their once shared flat.  _ This is it _ , George thinks.  _ This is the moment where the Earth shatters momentarily and I’ll have no idea why. _

George never felt much for Jamie but nostalgia for something better. Jamie was an escape, something that stayed. Someone who wasn’t there to sip coffee and pretend to not steal glances, he wasn’t there to bake pancakes in the morning in a house he could only dream to share, he wasn’t there to say  _ I love you  _ throughout every tiny insufferable action, every pointed glare, and every suffocation. Truth is, Jamie stayed. That was all he ever did.

So why should the Earth shatter? Maybe to mimic the little boy left to burn within the flames he caused. The flames he drowns in every single night. George is nothing more than a child, it seems. Twenty two years old and he can’t even hold his breath underwater. Twenty two years old and he’s struggling to count past twenty three.

Jamie hunches over his suitcase, shoulders alert, a stoic creature. George thinks if an earthquake were to appear, Jamie would hardly move - maybe sway for a brief moment, but he wouldn’t move. George doesn’t move either. Not so much in an impassive, guarded manor, per se. If anything he simply floats. George floats, Jamie sinks. It’s no wonder they couldn’t stop the tides from rising.

Footsteps break George out of his mindless trance, slowly roping him back into the present. God, he wishes he wasn’t back in the present. “Just gotta get a few things from the kitchen. I’ll be out of your hair in a few.”

George nods passively, cheeks aflame, bile swimming throughout his stomach like a toddler afraid of waters, and suddenly impassive isn’t enough.  _ Nothing is ever enough.  _ George takes a step forwards, following faintly behind Jamie as a ghost. A poltergeist who didn’t see the blinding light and golden gate and missed their opportunity for something better. 

“I - I hope you know I’m sorry.” Though the statement comes across a hushed whisper, delicately tracing the realms of strength, George hopes the message transfers through the swamp, the murk. He hopes.

Jamie lets out a scoff, George can practically hear his eye roll. “Don’t. Just don’t, please.” Somehow Jamie’s voice comes across softer from throughout the kitchen, growing louder as the man floats gracefully towards George.

“Don’t what?” Possibly the worst question George could’ve asked, but it doesn’t matter - none of this matters. It’s simply a game of chess George can’t seem to win. No matter what, he’ll never win.

Jamie inhales shakily, head facing the ceiling as the Heavens crash. Everything always crashes. “Are you fucking serious?” George looks around, praying to everything he knows that this will be okay. All George needs is ‘okay’. 

Without further words, Jamie answers George. “I was  _ there  _ for you through everything growing up.  _ Everything.  _ You say you’re helpless, George, but you don’t bother to get help! Good fuck, I know you never loved me, and truth be told you probably never will. But, God,” Jamie runs his tongue over his lips, dropping his gaze to meet George’s.  _ I’ll never win.  _ “I - I get I don’t like the makeup, or the painted nails or - or the dresses but I didn’t mind you, George. I didn’t fucking  _ mind  _ having someone I trusted.”

George’s mind spirals, sinking further and further into the shared intimacy of the early mornings they once shared. George never liked waking up next to Jamie, and yet he can’t seem to view those memories as precious. As gemstones hidden within letters addressed to the fires. Jamie shakes his head, staring through George, towards the door.

“Good luck with . . . whatever it is you have going on with that man.” Jamie lets out a breathy laugh as a few stray tears cloud his vision. “God, just - just do me a favour, yeah? Don’t fuck that up.” Jamie picks up his suitcase, and leaves.

Just like that, just like the worlds aren’t falling down, just like George hasn’t lost everything. The skies are hazy, the ground is marsh and George forgot how susceptible he is to lightning. He’s standing outside in the middle of a storm in steel wellingtons, and an aluminium coat screaming at the top of his lungs for the weather to strike him. For it to all just be over. The one person who was supposed to stay, who was only here as a safety net left. Jamie left with nothing more than yet another promise George can’t keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO!! holy shit for starters i just wanna say ur comments are actually so so sweet thank u guys so much for all the support this fic's been getting :[ i literally sat for half an hour yesterday just crying bc yous are so sweet i - hfsjkdh thank u, genuinely. ALSO ALSO thank u for over 100 kudos !! thats so cool ngl hfsdjkh also vvvv unrelated but i just remembered ik i use religion quite a lot in this fic, personally im not religious at all im just northern meaning gods name is in my veins iykwim hfjskdh jkjk very sorry if i get smited or whatever it was a joke !! pls hfdsjk but yes yes thank u guys again very very much i hope u enjoyed the chapter!! pls leave a comment if u did i get very lonely fhsjdk have a wonderful time period i love u all so so much mwah !! :D
> 
> p.s for the non musical nerds confused by the second paragraph a waltz is performed in a three by four beat, think like one two three one two three right but if ur doing a four by four that’s one and two and three and four so like ,, most songs are in four by four time signature but yeah hope that helped woo!!

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO! okie so basically this is a pre existing fanfiction im currently writing lmao called u guessed it honey and lime woooooooo but i was like ,,,,,,,,,, its good tho ,,,,,,,,,, and i can easily just change names n shit lmao but yeah so thats that !! my battery is very low rn but i should be posting at least the second chapter tonight !! disclaimer i wrote the original, im not a plagiarist dw if u wanna check it out be my guest but woo yeah hope u enjoyed i love u all so much hope u have a great time period mwah :D


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